no longer vibrated between a lingering hope and a dreadful fear. I
was _deceived_ and another was _beloved_. That sort of sullen firm
composure, which fixes on man when he knows the worst that can occur,
took possession of every feeling, and steadied that wild throb of
insupportable suspense which had agitated and distracted my veering
soul; while the only vacillation of mind to which I was sensible, was
the uncertainty of whether I should or should not quit the castle that
night. Finally, I resolved to act with the cool determination of a
rational being, not the wild impetuosity of a maniac. I put off my
departure till the following morning, when I would formally take leave
of the Prince, the priest, and even Glorvina herself, in the presence
of her father. Thus firm and decided, I returned to the castle, and
mechanically walked towards that vast apartment where I had first seen
her at her harp, soothing the sorrows of parental affliction; but now it
was gloomy and unoccupied; a single taper burned on a black marble slab
before a large folio, in which I suppose the priest had been looking;
the silent harp of Glorvina stood in its usual place. I fled to the
great hall, once the central point of all our social joys, but it was
also dark and empty; the whole edifice seemed a desert. I again rushed
from its portals, and wandered along the sea-beat shore, till the dews
of night and the spray of the swelling tide, as it broke against the
rocks, had penetrated through my clothes. I saw the light trembling
in the casement of Glorvina’s chamber long after midnight. I heard the
castle clock fling its peal over every passing hour; and not till the
faintly awakening beam of the horizon streamed on the eastern wave, did
I return through the castle’s ever open portals, and steal to that room
I was about to occupy (not to sleep in) for the last time: a light and
some refreshment had been left there for me in my absence. The taper was
nearly burned out, but by its expiring flame I perceived a billet lying
on the table. I opened it tremblingly. It was from Glor-vina, and only
a simple inquiry after my health, couched in terms of commonplace
courtesy. I tore it--it was the first she had ever addressed to me, and
yet I tore it in a thousand pieces. I threw myself on the bed, and for
some time busied my mind in conjecturing whether her father sanctioned
or her preceptor suspected her attachment to this fortunate rebel. I
was almost convinced they did not. The young, the profound deceiver; she
whom I had thought
“So green in this old world.”
Wearied by incessant cogitation, I at last fell into a deep sleep, and
arose about two hours back, harassed by dreams and quite unrefreshed,
since when I have written thus far. My last night’s resolution remains
unchanged. I have sent my compliments to inquire after the Prince’s
health, and to request an interview with him. The servant has this
moment returned, and informs me the Prince has just fallen asleep after
having had a very bad night, but that when he awakens he shall be told
of my request. I dared not mention Glorvina’s name, but the man informed
me she was then sitting by her father’s bedside, and had not attended
matins. At breakfast I mean to acquaint the excellent Father John of my
intended departure. Oh! how much of the woman at this moment swells
in my heart. There is not a being in this family in whom I have not
excited, and for whom I do not feel an interest. Poor souls! they have
almost all been at my room door this morning to inquire after my health,
owing to the nurse’s exaggerated account: she too, kind creature, has
already been twice with me before I arose, but I affected sleep. Adieu!
I shall despatch this to you from M-------- house. I shall then have
seen the castle of Inismore for the last time--the last time!!
H. M.
LETTER XXIX.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
M-------- House.
It is all over--the spell is dissolved, and the vision forever
vanished: yet my mind is not what it was, ere this transient dream of
bliss “wrapt it in Elysium.” Then I neither suffered nor enjoyed: now--!
When I folded my letter to you, I descended to breakfast, but the priest
did not appear, and the things were removed untouched. I ordered my
horse to be got ready, and waited all the day in expectation of a
message from the Prince, loitering, wandering, unsettled, and wretched,
the hours dragged on; no message came: I fancied I was impatient to
receive it, and to be gone; but the truth is, my dear friend, I was weak
enough almost to rejoice at the detention. While I walked from room to
room with a book in my hand, I saw no one but the servants, who looked
full of mystery; save once, when, as I stood at the top of the corridor,
I perceived Glorvina leave her father’s room; she held a handkerchief to
her eyes, and passed on to her own apartment. Oh! why did I not fly and
wipe away those tears, inquire their source, and end at once the torture
of suspense? but I had not power to move. The dinner hour arrived; I was
sum moned to the parlour; the priest met me at the table, shook me with
unusual cordiality by the hand, and affectionately inquired after my
health. He then became silent and thoughtful, and had the air of a man
whose heart and office are at variance; who is deputed with a commission
his feelings will not suffer him to execute. After a long pause,
he spoke of the Prince’s illness, the uneasiness of his mind, the
unpleasant state of his affairs, his attachment and partiality to me,
and his ardent wish always to have it in his power to retain me with
him; then paused again, and sighed, and again endeavoured to speak,
but failed in the effort. I now perfectly understood the nature of
his incoherent speech; my pride served as an interpreter between his
feelings and my own, and I was determined to save his honest heart the
pang of saying, “Go, you are no longer a welcome guest.”
I told him then in a few words, that it was my intention to have left
the castle that morning for Bally--------, on my way to England; but
that I waited for an opportunity of bidding farewell to the Prince: as
that, however, seemed to be denied me, I begged that he (Father John)
would have the goodness to say for me all------. Had my life depended
on it, I could not articulate another word. The priest arose in evident
emotion. I, too, not unagitated, left my seat: the good man took my
hand, and pressed it affectionately to his heart, then turned aside,
I believe, to conceal the moisture of his eyes; nor were mine dry, yet
they seemed to burn in their sockets. The priest then put a paper in
the hand he held, and again pressing it with ardour, hurried away. I
trembled as I opened it; it was a letter from the Prince, containing
a bank note, a plain ring which he constantly wore, and the following
lines written with the trembling hand of infirmity or emotion:
“Young and interesting Englishman, farewell! Had I not known
thee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me with
a son.
“O’Melville,
“Prince of Inismore.”
I sunk, overcome in a chair. When I could sufficiently command myself,
I wrote with my pencil on the cover of the Prince’s letter the following
incoherent lines:
“You owe _me_ nothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and all
that could _once_ render life desirable. With existence only will the
recollection of your kindness be lost; yet though generously it was
unworthily bestowed; for it was lavished on an _Impostor_. I am not what
I seem: To become an inmate in your family, to awaken an interest in
your estimation, I forfeited the dignity of truth, and stooped for
the first time to the meanness of deception. Your money, therefore, I
return, but your ring--that ring so often worn by you--worlds would not
tempt me to part with.
“I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my
heart! but since I have been your guest, _he_, the whole world was
forgotten. The first tie of nature was dissolved; and from your hands I
seemed to have received a new existence. Best and most generous of men,
be this recollection present to your heart: Should some incident as yet
unforeseen discover to you who and what I am, remember this--and then
forgive him, who, with the profoundest sense of your goodness, bids you
a last farewell.”
When I had finished these lines written with an emotion that almost
rendered them illegible, I rung the bell and inquired (from the servant
who answered) for the priest: he said he was shut up in the Prince’s
room.
“Alone, with the Prince?” said I.
“No,” he returned, “for he had seen the lady Glorvina enter at the same
time with Father John.” I did not wish to trust the servant with this
open billet, I did not wish the Prince to get it till I was gone: in a
word, though I was resolved to leave the castle that evening, yet I did
not wish to go, till, for the last time, I had seen Glorvina.
I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. “Suffer
me to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore forever.” As I
was putting the billet into the man s hand, the stable-boy passed the
window; I threw up the sash and ordered him to lead round my horse.
All this was done with the agitation of mind which a criminal feels who
hurries on his execution, to terminate the horrors of suspense.
I continued walking up and down the room in such agony of feeling,
that a cold dew, colder than ice, hung upon my aching brow. I heard a
footstep approach--I became motionless; the door opened, and the priest
appeared, leading in Glorvina. God of Heaven! The priest supported her
on his arm, the veil was drawn over her eyes; I could not advance to
meet them, I stood spellbound,--they both approached; I had not the
power to raise my eyes. “You sent for me,” said the priest, in a
faltering accent. I presented him my letter for the Prince; suffocation
choked my utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom,
and taking my hand, said, “You must not think of leaving this evening;
the Prince will not hear of it.” While he spoke my horse passed the
window; I summoned up those spirits my pride, my wounded pride, retained
in its service. “It is necessary I should depart immediately,” said I,
“and the sultriness of the weather renders the evening preferable.” I
abruptly paused--I could not finish the sentence, simple as it was.
“Then,” said the priest, “_any_ evening will do as well as this.” But
Glorvina spoke not; and I answered with vehemence, that I should have
been off long since: and my determination is now fixed.
“If you are thus _positive_,” said the priest, surprised by a manner so
unusual, “your friend, your pupil here, who came to second her father’s
request, must change her solicitations to a last farewell.”
Glorvina’s head reposed on his shoulder; her face was enveloped in her
veil; he looked on her with tenderness and compassion, and I repeated, a
“last farewell!” Glorvina, you will at least then say, “_Farewell_.”
The veil fell from her face. God of Heaven, what a countenance! In the
universe I saw nothing but Glorvina; such as I had once believed her, my
own, my loving and beloved Glorvina, my tender friend, and impassioned
mistress. I fell at her feet; I seized her hands and pressed them to
my burning lips. I heard her stifled sobs; her tears of soft compassion
fell upon my cheek; I thought them tears of love, and drew her to my
breast; but the priest held her in one arm, while with the other he
endeavoured to raise me, exclaiming in violent emotion, “O God, I should
have foreseen this! I, I alone am to blame. Excellent and unfortunate
young man, dearly beloved child!” and at the same moment he pressed us
both to his paternal bosom. The heart of Glorvina throbbed to mine, our
tears flowed together, our sighs mingled. The priest sobbed over us like
a child. It was a blissful agony; but it was insupportable.
Then to have died would have been most blessed The priest dispelled the
transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He stifled the voice of
nature and pity in his breast. His air was sternly virtuous--“Go,” said
he, but he spoke in vain. I still clung to the drapery of Glorvina’s
robe; he forced me from her, and she sunk on a couch. “I now,” he added,
“behold the fatal error to which I have been an unconscious accessary.
Thank God, it is retrievable; go, amiable, but imprudent young man; it
is honour, it is virtue commands your departure.”
While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall. “Stay,” said I, in
a faint voice, “let me but speak to her.”
“It is in vain,” replied the inexorable priest, “for she can _never_ be
yours; then spare _her_, spare _yourself_.”
“Never!” I exclaimed.
“Never,” he firmly replied.
I burst from his grasp and flew to Glorvina. I snatched her to my breast
and wildly cried, “Glorvina, is this then a last farewell?” She answered
not, but her silence was eloquent. “Then,” said I, pressing her more
closely to my heart, “_farewell forever!_”
IN CONTINUATION.
I mounted the horse that waited for me at the door, and galloped off;
but with the darkness of the night I returned, and all night I wandered
about the environs of Inismore: to the last I watched the light of
Glorvina’s window. When it was extinguished, it seemed as though I
parted from her again. A gray dawn was already breaking to the mists of
obscurity. Some poor peasants were already going to the labours of the
day. It was requisite I should go. Yet when I ascended the mountain of
Inismore I involuntarily turned, and beheld those dear ruins which I
had first entered under the influence of such powerful, such prophetic
emotion. What a train of recollections rushed on my mind, what a climax
did they form! I turned away my eyes, sick, _sick_ at _heart_, and
pursued my solitary journey. Within twelve miles of M-------- house, as
I reached an eminence, I again paused to look back, and caught a last
view of the mountain of Inismore. It seemed to float like a vapour on
the horizon. I took a last farewell of this almost loved mountain. Once
it had risen on my gaze like the pharos to my haven of enjoyment; for
never, until this sad moment, had I beheld it but with transport.
On my arrival here I found a letter from my father, simply stating that
by the time it reached me he would probably be on his way to Ireland,
accompanied by my intended bride, and her father, concluding thus:
“In beholding you honourably and happily established, thus secure in
a liberal, a noble independence, the throb of incessant solicitude
you have hitherto awakened will at last be _stilled_, and your
prudent compliance in this instance will bury in eternal oblivion the
sufferings, the anxieties which, with all your native virtue and
native talent, your imprudence has hitherto caused to the heart of an
affectionate and indulgent father.”
This letter, which even a few days back would have driven me to
distraction, I now read with the apathy of a stoic. It is to me a matter
of indifference how I am disposed of. I have no wish, no will of my own.
To the return of that mortal torpor from which a late fatally cherished
sentiment had roused me, is now added the pang of my life’s severest
disappointment, like the dying wretch who is only roused from total
insensibility, by the quivering pains which, at intervals of fluttering
life, shoot through his languid frame.
IN CONTINUATION.
It is two days since I began this letter, yet I am still here; I have
not power to move, though I know not what secret spell detains me. But
whither shall I go, and to what purpose? the tie which once bound me
to physical and moral good, to virtue and felicity, is broken, for ever
broken. My mind is changed, dreadfully changed within these few days.
I am ill too, a burning fever preys upon the very springs of life; all
around me is solitary and desolate. Sometimes my brain seems on
fire, and hideous phantoms float before my eyes; either my senses are
disordered by indisposition, or the hand of heaven presses heavily on
me. My blood rolls in torrents through my veins. Sometimes I think it
_should_, it _must_ have vent. I feel it is in vain to think that I
shall ever be fit for the discharge of any duty in this life. I shall
hold a place in the creation to which I am a dishonour. I shall become a
burthen to the few who are obliged to feel an interest in my welfare.
It is the duty of every one to do that which his situation requires, to
act up to the measure of judgment bestowed on him by Providence. Should
I continue to drag on this load of life, it would be for its wretched
remnant a mere animal existence. A moral death! What! I become
again like the plant I tread under my feet; endued with a vegetative
existence, but destitute of all sensation of all feeling. I who have
tasted heaven’s own bliss; who have known, oh God! that even the
recollection, the simple recollection should diffuse through my chilled
heart, through my whole languid frame such cheering renovating ardour.
I have gone over calmly, deliberately gone over every circumstance
connected with the recent dream of my life. It is evident that the
object of my heart’s first election is that of her father’s choice. Her
passion for me, for I swear most solemnly she loved me: Oh, in that I
could not be deceived; every look, every word betrayed it; her passion
for me was a paroxysm. Her tender, her impassioned nature required some
object to receive the glowing ebullitions of its affectionate feelings;
and in the absence of another, in that unrestrained intimacy by which
we were so closely associated; in that sympathy of pursuit which existed
between us, they were lavished on me. I was the substituted toy of
the moment. And shall I then sink beneath a woman’s whim, a woman’s
infidelity, unfaithful to another as to me? I who, from my early days,
have suffered by her arts and my own credulity? But what were all my
sufferings to this? A drop of water to “the multitudinous ocean.” Yet
in the moment of a last farewell she wept so bitterly! tears of pity!
Pitied and deceived!
I am resolved I will offer myself an expiatory sacrifice on the altar
of parental wrongs. The father whom I have deceived and injured shall
be retributed. This moment I have received a letter from him, the most
affectionate and tender; he is arrived in Dublin, and with him Mr.
D------, and his daughter! It is well! If he requires it the moment
of our meeting shall be that of my immolation. Some act of desperation
would _be_ now most consonant to my soul!
Adieu.
H. M.
LETTER XXX.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
_Dublin_.
I am writing to you from the back-room of a noisy hotel in the centre
of a great and bustling city: my only prospect the gloomy walls of the
surrounding houses. What a contrast! Where now are those refreshing
scenes on which my rapt gaze so lately dwelt--those wild sublimities of
nature--the stupendous mountain, the Alpine cliff, the boundless ocean,
and the smiling vale Where are those original and simple characters,
those habits, those manners, to me at least so striking and so new?--
All vanished like a dream!--
“The baseless fabric of a vision!”
I arrived here late in the evening, and found my father waiting to
receive me. Happily the rest of the party were gone to the theatre; for
his agitation was scarcely less than my own. You know that, owing to
our late misunderstanding, it is some months since we met. He fell on
my neck and wept. I was quite overcome. He was shocked at my altered
appearance, and his tenderest solicitudes were awakened for my health.
I was so vanquished by his goodness, that more than once I was on
the point of confessing all to him. It was my good angel checked the
imprudent avowal: for what purpose could it now serve, but to render
me more contemptible in his eyes, and to heighten his antipathy against
those who have been in some degree the unconscious accessaries to
my egregious folly and incurable imprudence. But _does_ he feel an
antipathy against the worthy Prince? Can it be otherwise? Have not all
his conciliatory offers been rejected with scorn?--Yet to me he never
mentioned the Prince’s name; this silence surprises me--long may it
continue. I dare not trust myself. In your bosom only is the secret
safely reposed.
As I had rode day and night since I left M--------house, weariness and
indisposition obliged me almost on my arrival to go to bed: my father
sat by my side till the return of the party from the theatre. What plans
for my future aggrandizement and happiness did his parental solicitude
canvass and devise! the prospect of my brilliant establishment in life
seems to have given him a new sense of being. On our return to England,
I am to set up for the borough of ----------. My talents are calculated
for the senate: fame, dignity, and emolument, are to wait upon their
successful exertion. I am to become an object of popular favour and
royal esteem; and all this time, in the fancied triumph of his parental
hopes, he sees not that the heart of their object is breaking.
Were you to hear him! were you to see him. What a father! what a man!
Such intelligence--such abilities. A mind so dignified--a heart so
tender! and still retaining all the ardour, all the enthusiasm of youth.
In what terms he spoke of my elected bride! He indeed dwelt chiefly on
her personal charms, and the simplicity of her unmodified character.
Alas! I once found both united to genius and sensibility.
“How delightful, (he exclaimed) to form this young and ductile mind, to
mould it to your desires, to breathe inspiration into this lovely image
of primeval innocence, to give soul to beauty, and intelligence to
simplicity; to watch the rising progress of your grateful efforts, and
finally clasp to your heart that perfection you have yourself created.”
And this was spoken with an energy, an enthusiasm, as though he had
himself experienced all the pleasure he now painted for me. Happily,
however, in the warmth of his own feelings, he perceived not the
coldness, the torpidity of his son’s.
They are fast weaving for me the web of my destiny. I look on and take
no part in the work. It is over--I have been presented in form. They say
she is beautiful--it may be so;--but the blind man cannot be persuaded
of the charms of the rose, when his finger is wounded by its thorns. She
met me with some confusion, which was natural, considering she had been
“won unsought.” Yet I thought it was the bashfulness of a _hoyden_,
rather than that soul-born delicate bashfulness which I have seen
accompanied with every grace. How few there are who do or can
distinguish this in woman; yet in nature there is nothing more distinct
than the modesty of sentiment and of constitution.
The father was, as usual, boisterously good-humoured, and vulgarly
pleasant; he talked over our sporting adventures last winter, as if the
topic were exhaustless. For my part, I was so silent, that my father
looked uneasy, and I then made amends for my former taciturnity by
talking incessantly, and on every subject, with vehemence and rapidity.
A woman of common sense or common delicacy, would have been disgusted;
but she is a child. They would fain drag me after them into public, but
my plea of ill health has been received by my indulgent father. My gay
young mistress seems already to consider me as her husband, and treats
me accordingly with indifference. In short, she finds that love in the
solitude of the country, and amidst the pleasures of the town, is a very
different sentiment; yet her vanity, I believe, is piqued by my neglect;
for to-day she said, when I excused myself from accompanying her to a
morning concert, Oh! I should much rather have your father with me, he
is the younger man of the two: I indeed never saw him in such health
and spirits; he seems to tread on air. Oh! that he were my rival, my
successful rival! In the present morbid state of my feelings I give
in to every thing; but when it comes to a crisis, will this stupid
acquiescence still befriend their wishes? Impossible!
IN CONTINUATION.
I have had a short but extraordinary conversation with my father. Would
you believe it? he has for some time back cherished an attachment of the
tenderest nature; but to his heart, the interests of his children have
ever been an object of the first and dearest concern. Having secured
their establishment in life, and as he hopes and believes, effected
their happiness, he now feels himself warranted in consulting his own.
In short, he has given me to understand that there is a probability of
his marriage with a very amiable and deserving person, closely following
after my brother’s and mine. The lady’s name he refused to mention,
until every thing was finally arranged; and whoever she is, I suspect
her rank is inferior to her merits, for he said, “The world will call
the union disproportioned--disproportioned in every sense; but I must
in this instance, prefer the approval of my own heart to the world’s
opinion.” He then added, (equivocally) that had he been able to follow
me immediately to Ireland, as he had at first proposed, he would have
related to me some circumstances of peculiar interest, but that _I
should yet know all_ and seemed, I thought, to lament that disparity
of character between my brother and him, which prohibited that flow of
confidence his heart seems panting to indulge in. You know Edward
takes no pains to conceal that he smiles at those ardent virtues in his
father’s character, to which the phlegmatic temperament of his own gives
the name of _romance_.
The two fathers settle every thing as they please. A property which fell
to my father a few weeks back, by the death of a rich maiden aunt, with
every thing not entailed, he has made over to me, even during his life.
Expostulation was in vain, he would not hear me:--for himself he has
retained nothing but his purchased estates in Connaught, which are
infinitely more extensive than that he possesses by inheritance. What if
he resides at the Lodge, in the very neighbourhood of------? Oh! my
good friend, I fear I am deceiving myself: I fear I am preparing for the
heart of the best of fathers, a mortal disappointment. When the
throes of wounded pride shall have subsided, when the resentments of
a doat-ing, a deceived heart, shall have gradually abated, and the
recollection of former blisses shall have soothed away the pangs of
recent suffering; will I then submit to the dictates of an imperious
duty, or resign myself unresisting to the influence of morbid apathy?