as if he would search to the most secret folds of my heart. He has never
once asked my opinion of my elected bride, who, gay and happy as the
first circles of this dissipated city can make her, cheerfully receives
the plea which ill health affords (attributed to a heavy cold) of not
attending her in her pursuit of pleasure. The fact is, I am indeed ill;
my mind and body seem declining together, and nothing in this world can
give me joy, but the prospect of its delivery.
By this I suppose the mysterious friend is arrived. It was expedient,
therefore, that I should be dismissed. By this I suppose she is....
So closely does my former weakness cling round my heart, that I cannot
think of it without madness.
After having contemplated for a few minutes the sun’s cloudless
radiancy, the impression left on the averted gaze is two dark spots, and
the dazzled organ becomes darkened by a previous excess of lumination.
It is thus with my mind; its present gloom is proportioned to its former
light. Oh! it was too, too much! Rescued from that moral death, that
sickbed satiety of feeling, that state of chill, hopeless existence, in
which the torpid faculties were impalpable to every impression, when
to breathe, to move, constituted all the powers of being: and then
suddenly, as if by intervention of Providence (and what an agent did it
appoint for the execution of its divine will!) raised to the summit of
human thought, human feeling, human felicity, only again to be plunged
in endless night. It was too much.
*****
Good God! would you believe it! My father is gone to M------house, to
prepare for the reception of the bridal party. We are to follow, and he
proposes spending the summer there; there too, he says, my marriage with
Miss D------ is to be celebrated; he wishes to conciliate the good will,
not only of the neighbouring gentry, but of his tenantry in general, and
thinks this will be a fair occasion. Well be it so; but I shall not
hold myself answerable for the consequences: my destiny is in their
hands--let them look to the result.
Since my father left us, I am of necessity obliged to pay some attention
to _his friends_; but I should be a mere automaton by the side of my gay
mistress, did I not court an artificial flow of spirits, by means to me
the most detestable. In short, I generally contrive to leave my senses
behind me at the drinking table; or rather my reason and my spirits,
profiting by its absence, are roused to boisterous anarchy: my bride
(_my_ bride!) is then quite charmed with my gaiety, and fancies she
is receiving the homage of a lover, when she is insulted by the
extravagance of a maniac; but she is a simple child, and her father is
an insensible fool. God knows how little of my thoughts are devoted to
either. Yet the girl is much followed for her beauty, and the splendid
figure which the fortune of the father enables them to make, has
procured them universal attention from persons of the first rank.
*****
A thousand times the dream of short slumbers gives her to my arms as
I last beheld her. A thousand times I am awakened from a heavy
unrefreshing sleep by the fancied sound of her harp and voice. There was
one old Irish air she used to sing like an angel, and in the idiom of
her national music sighed out certain passages with a heart-breaking
thrill, that used to rend my very soul! Well, this song I cannot send
from my memory; it breathes around me, it dies upon my ear, and in the
weakness of emotion I weep--weep like a child. Oh! this cannot be much
longer endured. I have this moment received your letter; I feel all the
kindness of your intention, but I must insist on your not coming over;
it would now answer no purpose. Besides, a new plan of conduct has
suggested itself. In a word, my father shall know all: my unfortunate
adventure may come to his ears: it is best he should know it from
myself. I will then resign my fate into his hands: surely he will not
forget I am still his son. Adieu.
H. M
CONCLUSION.
A few days after the departure of the Earl of M. from Dublin, the
intended father-in-law of his son, weary of a town-life, to which he had
hitherto been unaccustomed, proposed that they should surprise the earl
at M-------- house, without waiting for that summons which was to have
governed their departure for Connaught.
His young and thoughtless daughter, eager only after novelty, was
charmed by a plan which promised a change of scene and variety of life.
The unfortunate lover of Glorvina fancied he gave a reluctant compliance
to the proposal which coincided but too closely with the secret desires
of his soul.
This inconsiderate project was put into execution almost as soon as
formed. Mr. D. and his daughter went in their own carriage; Mr. M.
followed on horseback. On their arrival, they found M-------- house
occupied by workmen of every description, and the Earl of M--------
absent.
Mr. Clendinning, his lordship’s agent, had not returned from England;
and the steward, who had been but lately appointed to the office,
informed the travellers that Lord M. had only been one day at M------
house, and had removed a few miles up the country to a hunting-lodge
until it should be ready for the reception of the family. Mr. D.
insisted on going on to the hunting-lodge. Mr. M. strenuously opposed
the intention, and with difficulty prevailed on the thoughtless father
and volatile daughter to stop at M-------- house, while he went in
search of its absent lord. It was early in the day when they had
arrived, and when Mr. M. had given orders for their accommodation, he
set out for the Lodge.
From the time the unhappy M. had come within the sight of those scenes
which recalled all the recent circumstances of his life to memory, his
heart had throbbed with a quickened pulse; even the scenery of M--------
house had awakened his emotion; his enforced return thither; his brief
and restless residence there; and the eager delight with which he flew
from the desolate mansion of his father to the endearing circle of
Inismore all rushed to his memory, and awakened that train of tender
recollection he had lately endeavoured to stifle. Happy to seize on an
occasion of escaping from the restraints the society of his insensible
companions imposed, happier still to have an opportunity afforded him of
visiting the neighbourhood of Inismore, every step of his journey to the
Lodge was marked by the renewed existence of some powerful and latent
emotion; and the latent agitation of his heart and feelings had reached
their _acme_ by the time he had arrived at the gate of that avenue from
which the mountains of Inismore were discernible.
When he had reached the Lodge, a young lad, who was working in the
grounds, replied to his inquiries, that an old woman was its only
resident, that the ancient steward was dead, and that Lord M. had only
remained there an hour.
This last intelligence overwhelmed Mr. M. with astonishment. To his
further inquiries the boy only said, that as the report went that
M-------- house was undergoing some repair, it was probable his lord had
gone on a visit to some of the _neighbouring quality_. He added that his
lord ship’s own gentleman had accompanied him.
Mr. M. remained for a considerable time lost in thought; then throwing
the bridle over his horse’s neck, folded his arms, and suffered it to
take its own course: it was the same animal which had so often carried
him to Inismore. When he had determined on following his father to the
Lodge he had ordered a fresh horse; that which the groom led out was
the same which Mr. M. had left behind him, and which, by becoming the
companion of his singular adventure, had obtained a peculiar interest in
his affections. When he had passed the avenue of the Lodge, the animal
instinctively took to that path he had been accustomed to go; his
instinct was too favourable to the secret wishes of the heart of his
unhappy master; he smiled sadly, and suffered him to proceed. The
evening was far advanced the sun had sunk in the horizon, as from an
eminence he perceived the castle of Inismore. His heart throbbed with
violence--a thousand hopes, a thousand wishes, a thousand fears agitated
his breast: he dared not for a moment listen to the suggestions of
either. Lost in the musings of his heart and imagination, he was already
within a mile of Inismore. The world now disappeared--he descended
rapidly to a wild and trackless shore, screened from the high road by a
range of inaccessible cliffs. Twilight faintly lingered on the summit of
the mountains only: the tide was out; and, crossing the strand, he found
himself beneath those stupendous cliffs which shelter the western part
of the peninsula of Inismore from the ocean. The violence of the waves
had worn several defiles through the rocks, which commanded a near view
of the _ruined castle_: it was involved in gloom and silence--all was
dark, still, and solemn!--No lights issued from the windows--no noise
cheered at intervals the silence of desolation.
A secret impulse still impelled the steps of Mr. M--------, and the
darkness of the night favoured his irresistible desire to satisfy the
longings of his enamoured heart, by taking a last look at the shrine of
its still worshipped idol. He proceeded cautiously through the rocks,
and alighting, fastened his horse near a patch of herbage; then advanced
towards the chapel--its gates were open--the silence of death hung over
it. The rising moon, as it shone through the broken casements, flung
round a dim religious light, and threw its quivering rays on _that_
spot where he had first beheld Glorvina and her father engaged in the
interesting ceremonies of their religion. And to think that even at that
moment he breathed the air that she respired, and was within a few paces
of the spot she inhabited!--Overcome by the conviction, he resigned
himself to the delirium which involved his heart and senses; and,
governed by the overpowering impulse of the moment, he proceeded along
that colonade through which he had distinctly followed her and the
Prince on the night of his first arrival at the castle. It seemed to his
heated brain as though he still pursued those fine and striking forms
which almost appeared but the phantoms of fancy’s creation.
On every mourning breeze he thought the sound of Glorvina’s voice was
borne; and starting at the fall of every leaf, he almost expected to
meet at each step the form of Father John, if not that of his faithless
mistress; but the idea of her lover occurred not. The review of scenes
so dear awakened only a recollection of past enjoyments; and in the fond
dream of memory his present sufferings were for an interval suspended.
Scarcely aware of the approximation, he had already reached the lawn
which fronted the castle, and which was strewed over with fragments of
the mouldering ruins, and leaning behind a broken wall which screened
him from observation, he indulged himself in contemplating that noble
but decayed edifice where so many of the happiest and most blameless
hours of his life had been enjoyed. His first glance was directed
towards the casement of Glorvina’s room, but there nor in any other did
the least glimmering of light appear. With a faultering step he advanced
from his concealment towards the left wing of the castle, and snatched a
hasty glance through the window of the banquetting hall. It was the hour
in which the family were wont to assemble there. It was now impenetrably
dark--he ventured to approach still closer, and fixed his eye to the
glass; but nothing met the inquiry of his eager gaze save a piece
of armour, on whose polished surface the moon’s random beams faintly
played. His heart was chilled; yet, encouraged by the silent desolation
that surrounded him, he ventured forward. The gates of the castle were
partly open; the hall was empty and dark--he paused and listened--all
was silent as the grave. His heart sunk within him--he almost wished to
behold some human form, to hear some human sound. On either side, the
doors of two large apartments stood open: he looked into each; all was
chill and dark.
Grown desperate by gloomy fears, he proceeded rapidly up the stone
stairs which wound through the centre of the building. He paused; and,
leaning over the balustrade, listened for a considerable time; but when
the echo of his footsteps had died away, all was again still as death.
Horror-struck, yet doubting the evidence of his senses, to find himself
thus far advanced in the interior of the castle, he remained for some
time motionless--a thousand melancholy suggestions struck on his soul.
With an impulse almost frantic he rushed to the corridor. The doors of
the several rooms on either side lay open, and he thought by the moon’s
doubtful light they seemed despoiled of their furniture.
While he stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound of
Glorvina’s harp, born on the blast which sighed at intervals along
the passage. At first he believed it was the illusion of his fancy
disordered by the awful singularity of his peculiar situation; to
satisfy at once his insupportable doubts he flew to that room where the
harp of Glorvina always stood: like the rest it was unoccupied and dimly
lit up by the moon beams. The harp of Glorvina, and the couch on which
he had first sat by her, were the only articles it contained: the former
was still breathing its wild melody when he entered, but he perceived
the melancholy vibration was produced by the sea breeze (admitted by
the open casement) which swept at intervals along its strings. Wholly
overcome he fell on the couch--his heart seemed scarcely susceptible of
pulsation--every nerve of his brain was strained almost to bursting--he
gasped for breath. The gale of the ocean continued to sigh on the cords
of the harp, and its plaintive tones went to his very soul, and roused
those feelings so truly in unison with every sad impression. A few
burning tears relieved him from an agony he was no longer able to
endure; and he was now competent to draw some inference from the
dreadful scene of desolation by which he was surrounded. The good old
Prince was no more!--or his daughter was married! In either case it was
probable the family had deserted the _ruins_ of Inismore.
While absorbed in this heart-rending meditation, he saw a faint light
gleaming on the ceiling of the room, and heard a footstep approaching.
Unable to move, he sat breathless with expectation. An ancient female
tottering and feeble, with a lantern in her hand, entered; and having
fastened down the window, was creeping slowly along and muttering to
herself: when she perceived the pale and ghastly figure of the stranger,
she shrieked, let fall the light, and endeavoured to hobble away.
Mr. M-------- followed, and caught her by the arm: she redoubled her
cries--it was with difficulty he could pacify her--while, as his heart
fluttered on his lips, he could only say, “The lady Glorvina!--the
Prince!--speak!--where are they?”
The old woman had now recovered her light, and holding it up to the face
of Mr. M--------, she instantly recognized him; he had been a popular
favourite with the poor followers of Inismore: she was among the number;
and her joy at having her terrors thus terminated, was such as for an
interval to preclude all hope of obtaining any answer from her. With
some difficulty the distracted and impatient M-------- at last learnt
from a detail interrupted by all the audible testimonies of vulgar
grief, that an execution had been laid upon the Prince’s property, and
another upon his person; that he had been carried away to jail out of a
sick bed, accompanied by his daughter, Father John, and the old nurse;
and that the whole party had set off in the old family coach, which
the creditors had not thought worthy taking away, in the middle of the
night, lest the country people should rise to rescue the Prince, which
the officers who accompanied him apprehended.
The old woman was proceeding in her narrative, but her auditor heard no
more; he flew from the castle, and, mounting his horse, set out for the
town where the Prince was imprisoned. He reached it early next
morning, and rode at once to the jail. He alighted and inquired for Mr.
O’Melville, commonly called Prince of Inismore.
The jailor, observing his wild and haggard appearance, kindly asked
him into his own room and then informed him that the Prince had been
released two days back; but that his weak state of health did not permit
him to leave the jail till the preceding evening, when he had set off
for Inismore. “But,” said the jailor, “he will never reach his old
castle alive, poor gentleman! which he suspected himself; for he
received the last ceremonies of the church before he departed, thinking,
I suppose, that he would die on the way.”
Overcome by fatigue and a variety of overwhelming emotions, Mr. M--------
sunk motionless on a seat; while the humane jailor, shocked by the
wretchedness of his looks, and supposing him to be a near relative,
offered some words of consolation, and informed him there was then a
female domestic of the Prince’s in the prison, who was to follow the
family in the course of the day, and who could probably give him every
information he might require. This was welcome tidings to Mr. M--------;
and he followed the jailor to the room where the Prince had been
confined, and where the old nurse was engaged in packing up some
articles, which fell out of her hands when she perceived her favourite
and patient, whom she cordially embraced with the most passionate
demonstrations of joy and amazement.
The jailor retired; and Mr. M--------, shuddering as he contemplated
the close and gloomy little apartment, its sorry furniture, and grated
windows, where the suffering Glorvina had been imprisoned with her
father, briefly related to the nurse that, having learnt the misfortunes
of the Prince, he had followed him to the prison, in the hope of being
able to give him some assistance, if not to effect his liberation.
The old woman was as usual garrulous and communicative; she wept
alternately the Prince’s sufferings and tears of joy for his release;
talked sometimes of the generosity of the good friend, who had, she
said, “been the saviour of them all,” and sometimes of the Christian
fortitude of the Prince; but still dwelt most on the virtues and
afflictions of her young lady, whom she frequently termed _a saint
out of heaven_, a suffering-angel, and a martyr. She then related the
circumstances of the Prince’s imprisonment in terms so affecting, yet so
simple, that her own tears dropt not faster than those of her auditor.
She said that she believed they had looked for assistance from their
concealed friend until the last moment, when the Prince, unable to
struggle any longer, left his sick bed for the prison of --------;
that Glorvina had supported her father during their melancholy journey
in her arms, without suffering even a tear, much less a complaint to
escape her; that she had supported his spirits and her own as though she
were more than human, until the physician who attended the Prince gave
him over; that then her distraction (when out of the presence of her
father) knew no bounds; and that once they feared her senses were
touched.
When, at a moment when they were all reduced to despair, the mysterious
friend arrived, paid the debt for which the Prince was confined, and had
carried them off the evening before, by a more tedious but less rugged
road than that she supposed Mr. M-------- had taken, by which means
he had probably missed them. “For all this, (continued the old woman
weeping) my child will never be happy: she is sacrificing herself
for her father, and he will not live to enjoy the benefit of it. The
gentleman is indeed good and comely to look at; and his being old enough
to be her father matters nothing; but then love is not to be commanded,
though duty may.”
Mr. M. struck by these words fell at her feet, conjured her not to
conceal from him the state of her lady’s affections, confessed his own
secret passion, in terms as ardent as it was felt. His recent sufferings
and suspicions, and the present distracted state of his mind, his tears,
his entreaties, his wildly energetic supplications, his wretched but
interesting appearance, and above all the adoration he professed for
the object of her own tenderest affection, finally vanquished the small
portion of prudence and reserve interwoven in the unguarded character of
the simple and affectionate old Irish woman, and she at last confessed,
that the day after his departure from the castle of Inismore, Glorvina
was seized with a fever, in which, after the first day, she became
delirious; that during the night, as the nurse sat by her, she awakened
from a deep sleep and began to speak much of Mr. Mortimer, whom she
called her _friend_, her _preceptor_, and her _lover_; talked wildly of
her having been _united to him by God in the vale of Inismore_, and drew
from her bosom a sprig of withered myrtle, which, she said, had been a
bridal gift from her beloved, and that she often pressed it to her lips
and smiled, and began to sing an air which, she said, was dear to him;
until at last she burst into tears, and wept herself to sleep again.
“When she recovered,” continued the nurse, “which, owing to her youth
and fine constitution, she did in a few days, I mentioned to her some of
these sayings, at which she changed colour, and begged that as I valued
her happiness I would bury all I had heard in my own breast; and above
all bid me not mention your name, as it was now her duty to forget
you; and last night I heard her consent to become the wife of the good
gentleman; but poor child it is all one, for she will die of a broken
heart. I see plainly she will not long survive her father, nor will ever
love any but you!” At these words the old woman burst into a passion of
tears, while Mr. M-------- catching her in his arms, exclaimed, “I owe
you my life, a thousand times more than my life;” and throwing his purse
into her lap, flew to the inn, where having obtained a hack horse, given
his own in care to the master, and taken a little refreshment which his
exhausted frame, long fasting, and extraordinary fatigue required, he
again set out for the Lodge. His sole object was to obtain an interview
with Glorvina, and on the result of that interview to form his future
determination.
To retrace the wild fluctuations of those powerful and poignant feelings
which agitated a mind alternately the prey of its wishes and its fears,
now governed by the impetuous impulses of unconquerable love, now by the
sacred ties of filial affection, now sacrificing every consideration to
the dictates of duty, and now forgetting everything in the fond
dreams of passion, would be an endless, an impossible task; when still
vibrating between the sweet felicities of new-born hope, and the gloomy
suggestions of habitual doubt. The weary traveller reached the peninsula
of In-ismore about the same hour that he had done the preceding day. At
the drawbridge he was met by a peasant whom he had known and to whom
he gave his horse. The man, with a countenance full of importance, was
going to address him, but he sprung eagerly forward and was in a moment
immersed in the ruins of the castle; intending to pass through the
chapel as the speediest and most private way, and to make his arrival
first known to Father John, to declare to the good priest his real name
and rank, his passion for Glorvina, and to receive his destiny from her
lips only.