Several years ago I took up my abode at the retired village of D----.
I had chosen this residence on account of its sequestered situation,
as solitude was, at that time, more accordant to my feelings than the
bustle of a populous town. At no great distance from my habitation
stood the Castle of D----, an ancient Gothic structure, sinking fast
into decay. The last of its original possessors had been dead more
than half a century, and it was the property of a gentleman who
resided on the continent. The interior of the mansion spoke loudly
of desolation and ruin: the state apartments were despoiled of their
magnificent decorations, and scarcely a vestige remained of their
former splendour. An aged female domestic was the sole inhabitant of
this deserted pile. Born in the service of the family of D----, she
had survived the last of its race, and remained a solitary relic of
that illustrious house. It was the business of old Alice to show the
castle to strangers; and I soon became a favourite with her, from the
interest I appeared to take in the fate of its former inhabitants. The
gallery was our chief resort; and, finding me a willing listener, my
ancient companion delighted to inform me of all tradition had supplied
her with, respecting the mighty warriors and stately dames, whose
portraits still hung on the walls, smiling, as if in mockery of the
desolation around.
One fine autumnal evening found me, as usual, in my favourite retreat.
The rays of the departing sun streamed in rich dyes through the
coloured window, and fell with softened glory on the picture of a
bridal ceremony. I was surprised that it had never before engaged my
attention. The bridegroom was young, graceful, and noble--the bride,
fair, soft, and delicate. By her side stood a form of unequalled
loveliness: it seemed too beautiful to have belonged to a daughter
of earth; and I imagined the painter had designed it to represent
the guardian saint of the youthful pair. I inquired of my ancient
conductress the history of this picture, and whether the beautiful
female was not an ideal being? "Alas!" said she, "it commemorates a
heavy day for the house of D----; on that day the last and fairest of
its race sunk the victim of unrequited affection. That is her picture;
but, oh! her soul was more angelic than her person; she"--but, reader,
let me give the story in my own words. The Lady Isabel was the last
descendant of the family of D----; her father had fallen in battle;
his lady did not long survive him; and thus, at an early age, Isabel
became an orphan. Her mother's brother was appointed her guardian,
and, with his son Albert, came to reside at the Castle. The children,
thus insulated from the world, and educated entirely at home, saw
nothing so worthy to be loved as each other, and their attachment was
as romantic as the scenes around them. They both (but particularly
Isabel) delighted in the high chivalrous legends of antiquity--and
the tales of eternal constancy and self-devoted affection recorded
of some of the earlier heroines of her family, were read with sacred
veneration by the young enthusiast. In a mind of ordinary temperament,
little harm would have resulted from the indulgence of such a taste;
to the impassioned soul of Isabel it was destructive and fatal.
Deprived by death of the mother who might have taught her to restrain
and regulate her ardent feelings, they acquired by neglect additional
strength, and eventually concentrated into a passion deep and lasting
as her existence. As years passed on, so did her love increase; she
regarded Albert as the perfection of human excellence, and worshipped
him with all the full devotedness of her warm heart. It was not
so with Albert; he thought of his fair cousin with pride--with
tenderness; but it was only the calm affection of a brother: other
feelings than those of love possessed him--he languished for fame, for
honourable distinction among his fellow men, and at length left his
peaceful home, and the sweet companion of his youth, to fight the
battles of his country. His career was glorious; and after an absence
of three years, he was recalled by the death of his father. Isabel
welcomed him with rapturous joy; he embraced her with a brother's
fondness, and gazed with delight on her improved beauty. He suspected
not that she loved him with more than a sisterly affection, and
thought not of the wound he was about to inflict on this tender,
enthusiastic being. He told her of his attachment to a fair girl,
who had consented to become his bride at the expiration of the term
of mourning for his father. She heard him with death-like silence,
checked the groan that was bursting from her agonized heart, and
strove to assume a look of cheerfulness. Retired to the solitude
of her apartment, she wept in bitter anguish--her young soul was
blighted; she had nothing left to live for; hope, happiness, and
love were at an end; for love would now be guilt. At length she grew
calm, but it was the fearful calmness of despair; she complained
not--reproached not; for she felt that she had been self-deceived; she
could not, however, conceal the devastation which sorrow was making in
her graceful form. Albert beheld her with concern, but ascribed the
alteration to her grief for his father's loss, for Isabel had tenderly
loved her uncle. She rejoiced at his mistake, and attempted not to
undeceive him: one only wish possessed her--it was, to see the chosen
of her Albert; and, with a feverish impatience, she urged him to
accelerate his nuptials. The appointed day arrived--Isabel, attired
in robes of richest state, stood beside the altar, and witnessed the
annihilation of all her earthly happiness; still she sunk not; but,
with a mighty effort, pronounced a blessing on the wedded pair. The
excitement brought back a vivid colour to her cheeks, and rekindled
the lustre of her large dark eyes. The painter had seized that moment
to depict her glowing form--the enthusiasm was but momentary--her
angel face soon lost its lovely tint, and her beautiful eyes sunk
again into languor. The castle was thronged with noble guests--sick
at heart the wretched Isabel wandered abstractedly amid the gay
assembly--her large floating eyes seemed straying vacantly around,
until they met the bridegroom's look of joy. Then came the madness of
recollection; with a convulsive shuddering she averted her head, and
stole unnoticed from the company. Morning came, but she appeared
not; her chamber was searched--she had not entered it. Albert flew
distractedly into the park, and, at length perceived her quietly
sitting by the side of the lake, near a bower, which, when a boy,
he had helped to decorate. She was still clad in the robes of last
night's festival. He ran eagerly towards her--she spoke not--he
entreated her to answer him, but he implored in vain--there was
neither breath, nor sense, nor motion--she was dead! 'Twas a mournful
sight! one white hand, stiffened to marble, was pressed upon her
broken heart, as she had sought to stay its painful throbbings--the
cold night dews hung in large drops upon her silken hair, and shed
a tremulous gleam upon the diamonds that sparkled on her pale, icy
forehead--the withered leaves had found a resting place upon her
bosom, and her white garments were embroidered by their many
colourings. The castle became hateful to Albert after this event: he
removed to a distant part of the country, and never again revisited
the scenes of his earlier years. He also was dead; and Isabel, her
love, and her despair, were forgotten by all, save one aged, isolated
being, whose time-whitened locks and decrepit frame showed that she
too was rapidly descending to the silence of the grave.
_London University Magazine_. No. II.
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