When laurelled ruffians die, the Heaven and Earth,
And the deep Air give warning. Shall the good
Perish and not a sign?--ANONYMOUS.
It was the evening after the event recorded in our last chapter: all
was hushed and dark in the room where Mordaunt sat alone; the low and
falling embers burned dull in the grate, and through the unclosed
windows the high stars rode pale and wan in their career. The room,
situated at the back of the house, looked over a small garden, where
the sickly and hoar shrubs, overshadowed by a few wintry poplars and
grim firs, saddened in the dense atmosphere of fog and smoke, which
broods over our island city. An air of gloom hung comfortless and
chilling over the whole scene externally and within. The room itself
was large and old, and its far extremities, mantled as they were with
dusk and shadow, impressed upon the mind that involuntary and vague
sensation, not altogether unmixed with awe, which the eye, resting
upon a view that it can but dimly and confusedly define, so frequently
communicates to the heart. There was a strange oppression at
Mordaunt's breast with which he in vain endeavoured to contend. Ever
and anon, an icy but passing chill, like the shivers of a fever, shot
through his veins, and a wild and unearthly and objectless awe stirred
through his hair, and his eyes filled with a glassy and cold dew, and
sought, as by a self-impulse, the shadowy and unpenetrated places
around, which momently grew darker and darker. Little addicted by his
peculiar habits to an over-indulgence of the imagination, and still
less accustomed to those absolute conquests of the physical frame over
the mental, which seem the usual sources of that feeling we call
presentiment, Mordaunt rose, and walking to and fro along the room,
endeavoured by the exercise to restore to his veins their wonted and
healthful circulation. It was past the hour in which his daughter
retired to rest: but he was often accustomed to steal up to her
chamber, and watch her in her young slumbers; and he felt this night a
more than usual desire to perform that office of love; so he left the
room and ascended the stairs. It was a large old house that he
tenanted. The staircase was broad, and lighted from above by a glass
dome; and as he slowly ascended, and the stars gleamed down still and
ghastly upon his steps, he fancied--but he knew not why--that there
was an omen in their gleam. He entered the young Isabel's chamber:
there was a light burning within; he stole to her bed, and putting
aside the curtain, felt, as he looked upon her peaceful and pure
beauty, a cheering warmth gather round his heart. How lovely is the
sleep of childhood! What worlds of sweet, yet not utterly sweet,
associations, does it not mingle with the envy of our gaze! What
thoughts and hopes and cares and forebodings does it not excite!
There lie in that yet ungrieved and unsullied heart what unnumbered
sources of emotion! what deep fountains of passion and woe! Alas!
whatever be its earlier triumphs, the victim must fall at last! As
the hart which the jackals pursue, the moment its race is begun the
human prey is foredoomed for destruction, not by the single sorrow,
but the thousand cares: it may baffle one race of pursuers, but a new
succeeds; as fast as some drop off exhausted, others spring up to
renew and to perpetuate the chase; and the fated, though flying victim
never escapes but in death. There was a faint smile upon his
daughter's lip, as Mordaunt bent down to kiss it; the dark lash rested
on the snowy lid--ah, that tears had no well beneath its surface!---
and her breath stole from her rich lips with so regular and calm a
motion that, like the "forest leaves," it "seemed stirred with
prayer!" [And yet the forest leaves seem stirred with prayer.--
BYRON.] One arm lay over the coverlet, the other pillowed her head,
in the unrivalled grace of infancy.
Mordaunt stooped once more, for his heart filled as he gazed upon his
child, to kiss her cheek again, and to mingle a blessing with the
kiss. When he rose, upon that fair smooth face there was one bright
and glistening drop; and Isabel stirred in sleep, and, as if suddenly
vexed by some painful dream, she sighed deeply as she stirred. It was
the last time that the cheek of the young and predestined orphan was
ever pressed by a father's kiss or moistened by a father's tear! He
left the room silently; no sooner had he left it, than, as if without
the precincts of some charmed and preserving circle, the chill and
presentiment at his heart returned. There is a feeling which perhaps
all have in a momentary hypochondria felt at times: it is a strong and
shuddering impression which Coleridge has embodied in his own dark and
supernatural verse, that something not of earth is behind us; that if
we turned our gaze backward we should behold that which would make the
heart as a bolt of ice, and the eye shrivel and parch within its
socket. And so intense is the fancy that when we turn, and all is
void, from that very void we could shape a spectre, as fearful as the
image our terror had foredrawn. Somewhat such feeling had Mordaunt
now, as his steps sounded hollow and echoless on the stairs, and the
stars filled the air around him with their shadowy and solemn
presence. Breaking by a violent effort from a spell of which he felt
that a frame somewhat overtasked of late was the real enchanter, he
turned once more into the room which he had left to visit Isabel. He
had pledged his personal attendance at an important motion in the
House of Commons for that night, and some political papers were left
upon his table which he had promised to give to one of the members of
his party. He entered the room, purposing to stay only a minute; an
hour passed before he left it: and his servant afterwards observed
that, on giving him some orders as he passed through the hall to the
carriage, his cheek was as white as marble, and that his step, usually
so haughty and firm, reeled and trembled like a fainting man's. Dark
and inexplicable Fate! weaver of wild contrasts, demon of this hoary
and old world, that movest through it, as a spirit moveth over the
waters, filling the depths of things with a solemn mystery and an
everlasting change! Thou sweepest over our graves, and Joy is born
from the ashes: thou sweepest over Joy, and lo, it is a grave! Engine
and tool of the Almighty, whose years cannot fade, thou changest the
earth as a garment, and as a vesture it is changed; thou makest it one
vast sepulchre and womb united, swallowing and creating life! and
reproducing, over and over, from age to age, from the birth of
creation to the creation's doom, the same dust and atoms which were
our fathers, and which are the sole heirlooms that through countless
generations they bequeath and perpetuate to their sons.