The Blighted heart : or, The Old Priory ruins. A romance

Preface

. Many persons who peruse the present tale may consider that the characters and incidents are extravagant and overdrawn. The author pleads guilty to highly colouring facts (for facts the principal incidents in the narrative certainly are, startling and improbable as such a state ment may appear to many), but in all that he has done be has endea voured to work out a useful moral, and he humbly trusts that in that effort he has not entirely failed. The character of Bonville is certainly a most revolting one, but it is no exaggerated picture ; such a miscreant did exist, and took a promi nent part in the atrocities that were perpetrated during the reign of terror. The author has nothing more to add, than to return his thanks to the public for the very great favour with which they have received his production, and to subscribe himself, \ Thei* Grateitcl Servant. March M, 1849, THE OLD PRIORY RUINS. I — — — __ A ROMANCE, iBYTHE AUTHOR OP «THE GIPSY BOY," " E VELINA » « AIMIRA's CUBSE." &C, &c! .

Chapter I

BE0THEE AND SISTEE. — THE TEIALS Oi' THE HEART. — THE OLD PEIOEY RUINS. — THE FATAL ACCIDENT. — THE INTRO- DUCTION OF THE LITTLE .gTEANGEE. It is the season of autumn, and a -right, cheerful, invigorating autijpn it is; thc heart must bound with ex tasy as the calm breeze fans the cheek ; and even the mind oppressed with care must feei some relief in the beauty and tranquil joyousness of all around. It is a lovely evening in October ; see how the trees display tlie varied tints of autumn, heightened by the golden beams Jfftl* place. We cannot yet withdraw our attention from it ; for what melancholy yet chastened meditations arise in our minds as we traverse its mouldering ruins. Most striking emblems are those ancient remains of the mutability of human affairs. They are emblems of the futility of man's designs, and of all earthly grandeur.

Here lay, mingling their dust, the high and haughty abbot and the humbler monk, alike forgotten in the lapse of time ; here the loud-swelling notes of the full-toned organ, joined to the seraphic strains of the holy choir, raised the desponding soul to peace and happiness. But turn we now reluctantly away from this scene to one of a different des cription, it was that of a spacious and elegant mansion, of the Elizabethanl era, whose extensive grounds were well laid out, and extended along the banks of the river, while at its back was an open space of country of the most fertile and luxuriant description imaginable. It was known by the name of Sungrove abbey, and had been built upon the site of a re ligious house which had been levelled with the ground during the reign of Henry VU. By a sweep round an extensive lawn you were conducted to the principal en trance of the abbey by a broad flight of steps to the great hall, illumined by a dome, and decorated with pillars, statues, busts, and vases from the ruins of Her culaneum, and paved in chequer-work of different-coloured marbles.

Everything that the eye rested on bespoke the taste and elegance of the present or for mer proprietor. There was not a single nook or corner of Sungrove abbey which did not afford a subject for wonder and admiration to the refined and classical mind. of the retiring monarch of the day. What a scene is here spread forth for the admiration and glory of the contem plative mind ! What painter could do justice to it on canvas — what poet des cribe it in colours sufficiently glowing and life-like. Reader, we could pause much longer to linger on the beautiful scene which meets our imaginative eye, did we not fear that we should tire your patience ; and yet, oh, how can we leave_ it, so lovely aa it is, especially at this hour, when all around is so soul-absorbing and enchanting ? See, the clouds are tinged with purple and gold, so brightly reflected in the un ruffled waters of that noble river, as it gently steals along; beautiful river in deed art thou, and thy fair banks do honour thee in the rich and diversified scenery they display.

As far as the eye can stretch, all that meets it is grand and sublime; but if possible, more do_ we reverence thy banks, oh silvery river, for the numerous remains of noble ruins which meet the gaze at every turn. Principal among these are the ancient ruins of the Priory of St. Egbert, and well worthy of the attention, the parti cular attention of those who visit a certain district in the north of England, are they. Most romantic are those fothic ruins, which have not yet crumled to dust, although they nave been left neglected for the last twenty years. There seems to be a Providence watching over their preservation ; and all who once contemplate them must feel the deepest regret that such a splen did specimen of gothic architecture was ever suffered to fall into decay. The principal aisle, though impaired (at the time we commence our story), still retained striking proofs of former grandeur ; the noble gothie window, where the luxuriant ivy proudly usurped the place of many a painted pane, appeared now to have regained some of its former brilliant colouring, by the rays of a glorious setting sun, darting its beams betwixt the ivy leaves.

It was indeed a noble remnant of antiquity, was the old Priory of St. Egbert, and as this narra tive in the incidents which it records is so immediately connected with it, the reader will, we trust, pardon us for mak ing such particular mention of it in this In the eastern wing of this noble edifice was the library, which was furnished with a collection of the best authors in all lan guages, and every appropriate requisite to such an apartment. A glass door opened upon the pleasure-grounds, which were most admirably laid out, and a small wood led you to the hermitage, formed under an artificial hill, and fur nished with a moss bed, altar, and every thing appropriate to such a place of sweet retirement. But we fear we are becoming tedious. We must now conduct our reader through a pair of large folding doors, into a vestibule, which led to a suite of apartments fitted up in a style of the most tasteful elegance.

In one of these apartments, seated at an open window which commanded an un interrupted view of the graoeful river, and the adjacent scenery, were two persons. They were male and female, and the extreme likeness which their features displayed, plainly indicated that they stood in the relation of brother and sister. his sister, who was a maiden lady, and very different to him in disposition. At the death of their mother, she was consigned to the care of a female re lative, who, being brought up almost en tirely in the metropolis, had seen her brother but seldom, and not for the last few years, she therefore Jknew but little of his affairs, and was entirely ignorant of the cause of his sorrow. On the death of her relation, who be queathed her all her property, Miss Con ingsby once more visited the family mansion, and was astonished and sin cerely grieved to find her brother in such a deplorable state of mind, from which it was impossible, it appeared, for anything to arouse him.

In vain she endeavoured to elicit the cause ; he evaded her ques tions with an expression of horror, and implored her, as she loved him, never to press the subject again. Miss Coningsby was lost in amaze ment, and her curiosity to become ac quainted with all the particulars she felt was far greater than she should be able to conquer ; however, she stifled it for the present ; if it would be any al leviation to his sorrow also, she offered to take up her residence with him, and which ne accepted with pleasure ; for Albert was satisfied, that, whatever her disposition might be, and he had had no opportunity of judging of it, it must afford his afflicted spirit some consolation to be constantly blessed with the society of a relative so near and so dear to him. The gentleman was a handsome man in the prime of life, but some hidden sorrow had given his features the stamp of greater age ; his elbow was bent upon the back of his chair; his chin rested upon his hand, and although his eyes were steadily fixed upon the objects beyond, it required no very keen pene tration to discover that his mind was wandering upon far different objects.

His sister, who was some years his senior, was sitting on the opposite side, and earnestly, but silently contemplating him. Alas, Albert Coningsby had indeed drank deeply from the cup of sorrow, although his prospects in life had once been of the most brilliant description. He was the last male descendant of an ancient and honourable family, and he had a right to expect that nothing would occur to mar the felicity he at that time experienced. But, oh, how bitterly was he disappointed ; a dreadful storm suddenly burst with overwhelming fury over his head, annihilating all his fond che rished hopes at one fell swoop, and rendering him the most wretched of human beings in existence. The former scenes of pleasure m which he had mingled became hateful to him, and he took the earliest opportunity of seeking relief from the severe, the almost unen durable anguish of his mind, in peaceful seclusion.

But to return to the apartment in which Albert Coningsby and his sister were seated. For some time she con tinued to gaze at him in silence and with commiseration, for, although she possessed all the fastidiousness of the old maid, and had imbibed many bad pro pensities from the nature of the life in which she hadmingled, she also possessed many excellent and amiable qualities, and was most sincerely attached to her brother, whom she knew to possess every intrinsic virtue that ennobles the human race, and who, she was confident was so totally undeserving the poignant affliction of mind under which he laboured. " Still sad, still a prey to melancholy and corroding care, Albert," she at length said, arousing him from his lethargy; "will nothing ever arouse you from this state of despondency, and brighten your It was not long ere Mr. Coningsby had an opportunity of putting his wishes into effect.

Sungrove abbey being for sale, and he being well acquainted with its situation, gave his steward the ne cessary instructions, became the pur chaser, and having abandoned his family mansion, took up his residence at the abbey, whither he was accompanied by ; OR, v 4 you know all. But— but I must retire ; the solitude of my chamber and my own thoughts can alone restore me to com posure. Good evening, Eugenia, and I trust for the love of Heaven that the bitter anguish you see you have caused me, will prevent you from ever hinting at such a subject to me again." Thus saying, with a countenance ghastly pale, and agitated demeanour, Mr. Coningsby abruptly quitted the room, leaving his sister in a state of the utmost confusion, amazement, and re gret. She was vexed to think she had so greatly committed herself, and would gladly have given anything had she been able to recall what she had said, for her brother would henceforth think her sel fish, ungenerous, and unfeeling, and that was a character she would not on any account hold in his opinion ; but in spite of all, her curiosity and impa tience were excited to a more insupport able degree than ever. countenance once more with the smiles of gladness and content."

Her brother shook his head mourn fully and sighed. "Alas! my sister," he replied, "1 fear that peace and content must henceforth be strangers to my breast. The poisoned arrow has sunk too deeply in my heart. There is but one circum stance that could possibly restore me to happiness." " And what is that, my brother ?" He shuddered and averted his face for a moment. " Do not urge me, Eugenia, on that point, for never can my lips disclose the dreadful secret," he replied. "And am not I, your sister, Albert, worthy of your confidence?" she de manded, for she felt vexed and disap pointed that her brother should still refuse to gratify that curiosity which her brother's strange conduct had ex cited. -**t " Oh, yes, my dear sister," returned Mr. Coningsby, " indeed you are every way worthy of my confidence, and gladly would I make you acquainted with my tronbles, but the horror of the relation deters me.

I entreat you then to spare my feelings for the present, and the time may come when you shall know every thing." Miss Coningsby felt still more vexed, and her chagrin for a short time over came her feelings of sympathy. "I must confess, Albert," she ob served, "that this reserve towards a sister who has made so great a sacrifice, does appear strange, to say the least of it. The dreary, monotonous life I lead here, makes me heartily regret the gay companions I have abandoned, and I only wish that you would seek to banish this enemy by again uniting yourself to some amiable woman, then you would no longer require my presence here. " God of Heaven !" cried Albert, starting asjf he had been struck by a thunderbolt, and his whole frame exhibit ing such powerful emotion that his sister was completely terrified; " what cursed power has put it mto your mind to torture me thus ?

Marry, oh, that word ! it conveys ten thousand daggers to my heart. Eugenia you must bitterly reproach yourself for the cruel observations you have made, did " The secret which presses upon his mind must be of the most dreadful des cription that he should exhibit such violent emotion whenever the least allusion is made to it;" she observed, " what can it be, that he should even refuse to make me his confidant on the subject ?" Miss Coningsby did not see her brother again that evening, and at length weary of being alone, and with her own thoughts, she sought her pallet. When she descended mto the breakfast room in the morning, the servant informed her that her master had desired her to say that he had gone out for a walk, aud that he should not return to breakfast. This afforded Miss Con ingsby fresh cause for vexation and disappointment, and she could not but tmuk that her brother was treating her with undeserved coolness and disre spect. * V Mr. Coningsby had passed a restless night, and he was glad to endeavour to chase away the dismal thoughts which tormented him, by a ramble among the luxuriant scenery in the neighbourhood of the abbey.

He therefore, left his chamber at au early hour, and after having left a message for his sister, started forth. It may be imagined by the reader that because misfortunes of the most trying and melancholy description had caused him to abandon the society of his former friends, and even to disguise his real rank (for he was not what we have at present represented him to be), that Albert Coningsby was a misanthrope ; but such an idea would be perfectly erroneous, and doing him a great injus tice ; never did bosom teem with more noble or social virtues. Humane and generous in every sense of the word, he was ever ready to assist the unfortunate, and he possessed the most enthusiastic sentiments of friendship. The urbanity of his disposition soon became known, and his acquaintance was universally sought.

He had a small coterie of frieuds, who frequently exchanged visits with him, but he was more particularly intimate with Lord Everside, a worthy widower, without family, and with whom resided an only sister who had never ventured upon the perilous ocean of matri mony. Upon this nobleman, Mr. Con ingsby resolved to make a call after he had taken his intended walk. reflections arose on his mind, and he deeply lamented that he could not devise any means to reconcile his sister to her situation, 'which he felt confidant he might, if she was only to be made ac quainted with the unexampled sorrows to which he was the victim, but though he had often made up his mind to do so, he could not find courage sufficient for the painful task. Except the distant lowing of the cattle, the bark of the shepherd's dog, or the melodious warbling of the birds, an universal stillness reigned around.

It was indeed a peaceful hour, and Mr. Coningsby gradually felt its soothing influence, and sought in the contemplation of the scenery, so rich and fertile, which met the gaze on every side, to lose the thoughts to which his mind had for so many hours been a prey. He was now near the ruins of the old priory, which was a favourite resort of his, for he could there indulge without interruption in his melancholy meditations. He often paid visits to the honest old couple who now had the care of its humble lodge 'or portal, which was the only part of the priory which had not suffered from the devas tating hand of time, but he did not feel disposed to do so ithis morning, though he stood for a short time to gaze upon the mouldering ruins, upon which the bright sunbeams were now fantastically shining and imparting a transient lustre to what was so solemnly impressive in decay.

" Like thee, venerable pile," said Co nigsby, " has ruin fallen upon me, and the withering hand of time will but add to destruction, which was commenced in ingratitude and deceit. These crumb ling walls once resounded to the notes of holy happiness, and once I was happy but " The sun shone forth with the greatest splendour, and the light morning breeze came cool and refreshing to the senses. Mr. Coningsby did feel it somewhat revive and invigorate him, but still he could not banish from his mind the oppressive thoughts which had been excited by the unhappy observations of his sister on the previous evening. Mr. Coningsby was willing to make every allowance for his sister's discontent, though it naturally grieved him severely. Certainly, the sort of Use she now led, so different to that she had been accustomed to, was not likely to . soften the natural asperity of her temper, and it frequently broke the bounds prescribed by good manners.

He was well aware of the sacrifice she had made to He checked himself, and then with a half stifled sigh, turned slowly from the spot, and prepared to strike into the path which led to the mansion of Lord Everside. his convenience. She had quitted a circle of gay and agreeable friends, with whom she had passed the early part of her life, to live in comparative solitude, though this last was her own fault, as she refused every advance from the la dies in the vicinity of the abbey. '■ All these facts Albert made great al lowances for, and scarcely ever contra dicted her, though she too frequently gave way to fits of ill-humour. As he proceeded ia his walk all these He had not proceeded far, however, when the pitiful cry of a female for help smote his ears, He paused and listened to ascertain if possible from whence the sound came, and immediately afterwards the mournful cry of a child arrested his attention.

OR, 6 -• ■ " What can be the meaning of those pitiful cries ?" he ejaculated, as he hurried towards a httle copse, from whence the sounds evidently proceeded, and at the entrance he was met by an elderly woman, who seemed to be very much alarmed. " What is the matter, my good woman Mr. Coningsby hastily demanded, " and what is the meaning of those mournful cries I just now heard ?" " Oh, sir, pray hurry to the spot," replied the woman ; " there has been a dreadful accident. The strange gentle man and his sweet little child, sir." "The strange gentleman," repeated Mr. Coningsby with astonishment. " Yes, sir," returned the woman, " the strange gentleman who has been residing for a short time, with his child, at i the lodge of the old priory. He has met ■ with a sad accident, and he is lying there," pointing in the direction of the copse, "either dead or dying, and the poor dear Uttle innocent weeping over nim.

Oh, hasten, sir, I pray you. Mr. Coningsby immediately directed the woman to go to the priory lodge, ; and desire David to send for surgical assistance, and then to foUow him with ; _U possible speed ; and having seen the poor woman depart on this errand, he darted through the copse, and there be held a sight which not only called forth his warmest sympathy, but excited a feeling of horror in his breast. Upon a sUght mound was lying a gentleman, pale and motionless, while a fan child, apparently not more than five years of age, was feebly endeavouring to support his head, while at the same time her plaintive cries for assistance, and the agony and despair, which, no doubt tortured at the moment her own young heart, rendered her an object of the deepest sympathy. Mr. Coningsby darted forward and raising the unfortunate gentleman's head felt his pulse, when he plainly saw that life was all but extinct.

The poor child clung to him, as she looked up in his countenance and sobbed forth, " Oh, sir ! dear, good sir, do not let my poor papa die ! He has faUen down — he — he was walking with me, but he feU down, and cannot speak to me, oh mv poor papa !" «' My poor child," said Mr, Coningsby, in the mildest and most compassionate tone, "do not be alarmed, your papa, please God, will be restored and live many years to bless you with his protection." At that moment David Ambrook, the person in charge of the lodge of the old priory ruins, accompanied by another man, the old woman who had first given Mr. Coningsby information of the accident having been dispatched by him for surgical aid, arrived at the spot, and thc unfortunate gentleman was removed without delay to the priory, the poor child following, as well as her feeble steps and her extreme agitation would permit her, and wringing her little hand s at the same time, as though her heart would break, while Mr. Coningsby 1 in vain tried all his efforts to pacify her.

She was indeed a lovely girl, with a countenance combining all the innocence and simplicity of infancy, with the inteUigence of maturer years. Mr. Coningsby could not but gaze upon her with feelings of the greatest admiration and even love, but at the same time a certain sensation came over his heart for which he could in no way account. The gentleman was a nandsome man, young, and having the appearance of a foreigner, in fact, the accent of the child, who resembled him very much in features, shewed that they were not natives of this country. They arrived at the priory, and Dr. Morris immediately followed, but upon looking at his patient he shook his head, and it was quite evident that he thought there was but little or no chance of his recovery. Mr. Coningsby immediately pointed out, or rather drew the attention of the doctor to the child, who was now weeping upon the lap of Mrs Ambrook, and he ordered that she should be carried to bed without delay, and he sent the old woman, who had given the first alarm to Albert, to his surgery for a composing draught.

It was not without the utmost difficulty that they could tear the wretched child from" her father's side, though she seemed nearly exhausted hy her sorrow ; but at that critical moment the gentleman opened his eyes, he looked round the apartment wildly, the child was placed in his arms, she clung convulsively to his neck; the doctor tried to interpose, but before he could do so, the unfortunate gentleman, making one or two vain efforts to speak, sunk back upon the pillow of the couch on which he had been laid, and expired with scarcely a sigh. It was with difficulty that the child was separated from the corpse of her parent. having given his name as Mr. Aunville, took his leave. " I mentioned the circumstance to my dame on her return from market, and she readily, good soul as she is, entered into my feelings upon the subject.

In fact she felt delighted at the idea of having a gentleman residing at the priory, since my noble master, the Duke of AUcnsford, never visits the neighbour hood, and she immediately with the as sistance of myself and Agatha, our daughter, set about putting the place in apple-pie order, and the next morning Mr. Aunville came with little Miss Celestia, his daughter, in a post-chaise, bringing with him two trunks, and an Indian cabinet." CHAPTER H. WHO IS THE DECEASED ? — THE ACCOUNT OF DAVID.— MR. CONINGSBY'S RESOLU- TION. Such was the account given by David Ambrook, and Mr. Coningsby paused and reflected for a few moments upon what he had said, after he had ceased speaking. There was something very extraordinary in the business altogether, and he felt deeply interested in it, but more especially in the beautiful little Celestia, as David had informed him the unfortunate deceased had called her.

He was lost in perplexity, but at length inquirr-d • ' avid if any one had called upon I — ce he had been at the priory, or whether any letters had been received by him. David replied in the negative, although, he added, he was often writing. "And be never informed you from whence he came ?" asked Mr. Coningsby. "As he said the nurse died on the voyage, it must have been from some distant country." "I can assure you, sir," returned David, " that he never informed me, and of course, sir, it would have been great boldness in me to have put such a question to him." When the interesting little mourner was removed from the room, Mr. Con ingsby, who was surprised that a gentleman of the deceased's appearance should have sought refuge in such a plats, asked David Ambrook to give him some particulars as to him.

"Well, sir," replied David, "I will do all in my power. About three weeks since sir, as I was standing outside the portal of the old priory, a gentleman on horse-back stopped before me, and said the inn-keeper of the Jolly Fanner had told him that I could accomodate him with a couple of rooms for a short time. I felt rather surprised at this, for I thought the old lodge was not good enough for a gentleman of his appear ance, and I told him so, butat the same time I said, that both me arH my dame would do all that we possibly could to make him comfortable, if he pleased to become our lodger under such circum stances. " The gentleman replied that certainly his stay in this part of the country would be for a very short time, but that, having been very ill, he was desirous of a pure air and quiet to recover his health, and that, if I would accommodate him he would be with me the following day ; that he had a little girl, who would want some one to attend upon her, as her nurse had died on the voyage.

I told him my wife would be proud to do anything in her power for her, with which he ex pressed himself p;-ii'ivily satisfied, and " Do you think from what you saw of him that he was an Englishman or a foreigner ?" "Why, sir, he always spoke in the English language to me, but when he conversed with Miss Celestia, I could not comprehend what he said, or what reply she made to it. There could not be a more good natured gentleman than he , us, but he was so very melancholy, and he was always wandering in the old priory ruins." Mr. Coningsby again paused, and difficult to eradicate from his mind. The doctor was of opinion that the gentle man had expired in a fit of apoplexy, a supposition that was fully borne out by all the melancholy circumstances of the case. i Mr. Morris promised to meet Mr. Coningsby on the following morning, that they "might go together to the priory and endeavour to ascertain from the papers of Mr. Aunville (if such was in deed his real name), where they might write to his connections to inform them of his death. reflected upon what David had told him.

He was rather puzzled how to proceed. His interest was deeply excited, more especially as regarded the little Celestia, and a pang shot through his heart at the same moment, the nature of which can not at the present time be explained. But hoping to hear something from the child in the course of the day, he was preparing to take his leave, when David requested that he would examine the deceased gentleman's pockets, and also take possession of his keys. "I believe, sir," added the old man, " that you know the character of old David Ambrook too well, to suppose for an instant that he would touch anything belonging to the unfortunate gentleman, of she value of a rush ; but the world is fohd-of scandal, and many a poor fellow like myself has suffered from it." Mr. Coningsby, of course, could not attempt for a moment to dispute the force and truth of these remarks, and flunking it was most probable that there would be very little difficulty in discover ing the relations of the unfortunate Mr. Avunille (as he had represen ted himself to David to be ), he did not at all hesitate in taking charge of his property till that time ; he therefore examined his pockets hi the presence of Dr. Morris, David, his wife, and his daughter, and an inventory of their con tents was made under their observation.