And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refin'd and clear--
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek;
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head.
oeLADY OF THE LAKEoe.
That day which had nineteen times been passed at Ballinamoyle in solemn
sadness, as the anniversary of the death of its lovely heiress, arrived
once again--and was again marked by those outward signs of woe, which
gratified the feelings of a disconsolate father, as a tribute of respect
to the memory of her, who still in the freshest youth lived in his
heart.
No stranger on that day approached the desolate mansion, to partake of
its hospitality, or receive its charity. The domestics, habited in deep
mourning, flitted about the halls and passages in total silence; every
countenance was impressed by a dejection, that affected the most
thoughtless with unusual seriousness--even Mrs. O'Sullivan's servants
spoke in a whisper.
When the visitors assembled in the breakfast-room, neither their host
nor the priest appeared; and Theresa informed her guests, that the
former always passed this day in solitude. The same depression which
pervaded the rest of the house, seemed to exert its saturnine influence
in this apartment also. Mrs. O'Sullivan and her son were both too much
irritated, and each too completely engrossed in forming plans to
circumvent the intentions of the other, to offer a single word of
conversation. Adelaide and Miss Fitzcarril were occupied by a train of
distressing reflections, little aware, that they were caused in the mind
of each by the same event. The Miss Webberlys only interrupted the
general silence, by occasionally indulging in that pettish crossness,
which the sight of unparticipated sorrow always produces in weak and
selfish minds, whilst their fretful words and looks terrified the timid
little Caroline.
In the mean time Mr. O'Sullivan, after assisting in that service, by
which the Catholic Church permits the living relative, with fond
anxiety, to extend its cares beyond the grave, retired with the reverend
priest to his own apartment.
"Oh, my friend," said the afflicted parent, "you received my child into
the bosom of our holy church; you heard her first innocent confession,
you sanctified her fatal marriage vows, and how soon after did you offer
up the prayers of my broken heart for the repose of her departed soul!"
"She was almost as much the child of my affections as of yours," replied
the priest, greatly moved: "and how graciously did Heaven reward my
endeavours to form her mind to the practice of every virtue! Never did a
purer spirit inhabit a human form! Let us rejoice in this," continued
he, his countenance beaming with the cheering hopes of devotion; "we
have both hitherto offended by a grief that 'would not be comforted.'
Shall we, standing on the brink of the grave, still presume to murmur?
Let me exhort you to break through the accustomed indulgence of
unavailing sorrow, that would vainly strive against the will of Heaven:
you have always shunned consolation, seek it humbly and sincerely, and
it will be sent from above!"
The old man sighed deeply, and made that devotional sign which marks the
pious Catholic. His eyes were cast upwards, and his lips moved as if in
prayer. Whilst the creature addressed his Creator, the holy minister of
religion paused in reverential silence; but when the spontaneous
supplication had ceased, he again addressed his friend. "I would fain
impose a trial on you--a bitter one I confess; but could you accomplish
it, you would hereafter feel as becomes a mortal sufferer. The solitude,
the lugubrious forms of this day, nourish the grief it behoves you to
struggle against. The presence of strangers is a fortunate circumstance,
and will afford you an assistance your own domestic circle is incapable
of. Return to society; receive your guests as if this were to-morrow and
to-morrow will rise with a feeling of satisfaction, to which you have
long been a stranger."
Though O'Sullivan afterwards pondered on these words till he almost
believed them to have been an inspiration from Heaven, he at the moment
vehemently asserted the impossibility of his making such an exertion. A
considerable time elapsed, before the remonstrances of Father Dermoody
could overcome his reluctance to wrestle with "this cherished woe, this
loved despair;" but at last the advice of the friend, the admonitions of
the pastor, prevailed; and Mr. O'Sullivan, accompanied by his reverend
guide, appeared amongst his visitors, who were still assembled in the
breakfast-room. On entering, he bowed profoundly to all, then seated
himself in silence, with a mournful sternness that repelled every body
from addressing him, farther than to manifest that respect, which was
always involuntarily testified towards him. Miss Fitzcarril could
scarcely have been more surprised, had she seen the apparition of Rose
herself, than she was by the sight of her father on this morning;
lifting up her hands and eyes, she whispered her astonishment to Father
Dermoody, who requested her to abstain from exhibiting any further token
of it. Some of the party continued their occupations, some their
idleness, but no one spoke; and all, from time to time, anxiously looked
towards the windows, to judge from the increasing gloom of the sky, how
near the tempest it foreboded approached.
The aspect of nature was at that moment as dreary as O'Sullivan's heart.
That stillness, which sometimes precedes the coming storm, reigned
unbroken. Clouds of portentous blackness were slowly congregating, to
dart the forked lightning; but not a leaf moved, not a bird flitted in
the motionless air; and as the dark veil hung over the lake, its dormant
waters gave but the idea of fearful profundity. The silence of night is
awful, yet the soul confesses it the repose of nature; but when this
dread torpor appals the joyous day, every animate and inanimate object
seems fearfully resigned to await her dissolution. While the ear paused
in expectation of the hollow thunder, and the eye half closed as it
anticipated the vivid flash, a wild cry arose--"Good God! what's that?"
was the general exclamation. It was the wail, with which the children of
this mountain region deplored their dead. No softening gale lent it
beauty; the winds that were wont to sport with the accents of human woe,
wafting them to the mountain's rugged brow, or saddening the smiling
valley at its foot, now slumbered in the slowly rolling clouds. Horrible
and harsh the lamenting voice of hundreds smote the ear. Once it was
reverberated from rocks as lifeless as the being it bemoaned, whilst
the mourners and their sad burden were hidden from the view.
O'Sullivan started, and his eyes rested on the figure of Adelaide. As
she had compassionately viewed his sorrowful countenance, memory had too
faithfully depicted to her mind the anguish, which had always marked
this eventful day to her father. The sudden doleful lamentation had
completely overcome her spirits, and with her hands clasped in agony,
torrents of tears were streaming down her cheeks, whilst, as the chilled
blood recoiled to her heart, her dark hair threw a melancholy shade on
her palid face. The impulse of humanity overcame the silence of sorrow;
O'Sullivan instantly seized her hand, and as her eyes mournfully met
his, exclaimed, "Desmond has told me all; you grieve for your father, I
for my child. A desolate old man like me has little comfort to offer.
But for her sake, whose living image you are, in my heart's core could I
hide you from all trouble." Adelaide, leaning her head on his shoulder,
sobbed aloud.
Mrs. O'Sullivan, inflamed by anger at her son, and by jealousy of the
tenderness expressed in her brother-in-law's countenance for the lovely
mourner, whose confiding attitudes seemed to repose her affliction on
his solacing compassion, now whispered to Amelia, "This is _too_ bad;
that artful baggage has got him under her thumb too;--mayhap he may
devize his fortin to _her_ instead of Caroline, after all--I'll tell him
what she is." So saying, passion accelerating her utterance and
crimsoning her face, she addressed Mr. O'Sullivan with, "Sir, sir, that
Miss that's putting a sham upon you is a wagabond; and if she doesn't
look to her ways, I'll have her sent home by the alien act, as Meely
bids me. She tells up about English relations; but in two years she's
lived with me, she wouldn't never tell me who they were: she's an
imposter, and vill make a cat's paw of you, as she did of your brother,
and----" "Gad zooks, mother" interrupted Webberly, "what odds is it
who's her relations; when she marries, her husband's family is all she
has to look to." "Jacky! Jacky! you'll never come to no good--you're an
undutiful son! I'll get her packed off to Germany as sure as----"
"What's all this, madam?" said Mr. O'Sullivan, with a look of
contemptuous displeasure, that produced instant silence: "I will stand
in the place of my brother to this young lady, if she will honour me by
committing herself to my protection. Your threats against the
unoffending ward of your husband are shameful." "Sir," said Adelaide,
commanding herself to composure, "the gratitude I feel is inexpressible!
But on this day there is no impediment, to prevent my satisfying Mrs.
O'Sullivan's desire to know my parentage; of this she is well aware. My
father, madam," continued she, with grave steadiness, "Reginald Baron
Wildenheim, was the youngest brother of the present Earl of Osselstone.
Soon after my birth, he renounced his family name of Mordaunt, and
adopted his German title." O'Sullivan essayed to speak in vain; his lip
quivered, but no sound met the ear of man; and his half palsied hand
trembled as it passed a sign of deepest import to the priest, who
darting forward, exclaimed, "Your mother's name, young lady--speak, did
she die at Hamburgh?" "Alas! yes, on the day I was born; her name was
one which, honoured and lamented here, I trembled to pronounce--it was
Rose!" The old man uttered an hysterical laugh, and clasping her in his
arms, faltered out, "Her child then was saved!" "Produce your proofs!"
exclaimed the priest; "by every sacred name I conjure you, produce your
proofs!" Mrs. O'Sullivan, raging with passion, vociferated, "She is an
impostor; an artful minx, come to cheat Caroline." The Miss Webberlys
screamed in Adelaide's ear, "Produce your proofs if you dare!" Their
brother, with equal fury, interfered on her behalf. Little Caroline
clung crying to her knees, "They shan't hurt you, dear Adele, they
shan't hurt you!" Whilst Theresa, with terror in her looks, went from
one to the other, saying, "For God's sake have done; leave the room if
you can't be quiet; Mr. O'Sullivan will never get over such a piece of
work on this day, of all days in the year!" But Adelaide was unconscious
of all; she had taken her grandfather's agitated laugh, his
unintelligible words, for a wandering of reason, on hearing a name
resembling his daughter's unexpectedly mentioned; and, horror-struck,
had sunk lifeless in his arms. When he saw the paleness of death in her
cold cheek and blanched lip, stamping on the floor, he exclaimed, "You
have killed her! Unfeeling wretches, you have killed her!" Father
Dermoody and Theresa hastily stepped forward to offer that assistance he
was incapable of bestowing, and immediately removed her to a
neighbouring apartment, excluding every body else.
It was long ere Adelaide revived. When consciousness returned, she found
herself in a strange apartment. The gloom almost of midnight was
around; the storm had burst, and was raging with awful fury; the thunder
rolled tremendously above her head, and a vivid flash of lightning
illuminated the countenance of one kneeling at her side, on which she
saw despair--the despair of venerable age, depicted. With an involuntary
shudder she averted her head, and raised both her hands, as if to save
her from the terrific vision. "Father of mercy!" exclaimed O'Sullivan,
"I lost my child, and lived--lived but to see hers shun me." "Oh, my
God!" ejaculated the agonized girl, "have mercy on him!--poor old man!
poor old man!" and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. When she
recovered a little from the racking emotions which tortured her, she
mournfully took his hand, and said, "I do not shun you; God knows to
console yours would be a delightful solace to my own afflictions. But I
implore you to pause before you cherish these delusive ideas; a few
minutes will suffice to convince you of the fatal error you have fallen
into." She then, in a whisper, entreated Miss Fitzcarril to procure her
portfolio, as she feared to irritate Mr. O'Sullivan's mind, by leaving
him herself. Theresa fulfilled her request, and then with true delicacy
retired.
Adelaide eagerly tore open the important packet, and the first paper
that presented itself was one directed to Mr. O'Sullivan, which, with
inconceivable trepidation, she presented to him; but at the sight of the
writing he dashed it from him with looks of fury--"Never will I read
another from that detested hand, that last blasted my every hope of
earthly happiness!" The priest seizing the letter, hurried him out of
the room. "Unfortunate man!" exclaimed Adelaide; "Oh, why did I mention
his daughter's name, after the warning I received from Colonel Desmond?"
In an agony of mind not to be described, she attempted to read a letter
addressed by her father to herself; but when it informed her of such of
the particulars of his life as were necessary to explain her
relationship to her present venerable protector, she was so bewildered,
that she half despairingly pressed the letter to her heart, and silently
implored a supporting power from above. When she had again composed her
mind sufficiently to comprehend its contents, she was so stunned with
surprise, that she had scarcely power to feel how happy she ought to be,
as she repeated, "My grandfather! can it indeed be possible?" But she
was roused to a painful sense of anxiety and acute perception of sorrow,
when she came to the following paragraph, "Let it be your consolation,
my beloved child, that all the happiness I have known since your angelic
mother's death, has been your boon. Heaven permitted her to leave you to
me, as a gift of love, as a pledge of its mercy. I bequeath that filial
piety, which has been the solace of my existence, to her father, as a
reparation for the loss of his daughter. For my sake he may be harsh to
you, perhaps refuse to receive you; but pardon him, and, if he will
permit you, soothe the sorrows of his old age; he has much to forgive
your erring father." With indignation she now recollected how his letter
had been received, and every softer feeling, every selfish
consideration, was swallowed up in offended filial affection, as she
thought, "Never will I accept of kindness from one, who could spurn me
from resentment to my adored father!"
At that moment she heard O'Sullivan's step. Oh, who shall tell the tide
of tumultuous thoughts that overwhelmed her soul, as his hand
tremulously turned the lock of the door? 'twas but an instant--but how
much of misery cannot the human heart suffer in this short earthly
denomination of time!
He entered; and, as he approached, her heart seemed to die within her.
At first she could not move, but gazed almost unconsciously on his face,
and seeing there the mildness of grief, the benevolence of pity, the
warmth of paternal love, she knelt at his feet in speechless emotion,
whilst her looks, her attitude, implored his benediction. "Oh, may the
God of mercy bestow those blessings on you, that were denied your
mother!" He pressed her in his arms, and wept as he said, "My child, my
beloved child, I have not lived these years of misery in vain! Bless
you, bless you!" And now "joy and sorrow strove which should paint her
goodliest. You have seen sunshine and rain at once--her smiles and tears
were like a better May--those happy smiles, which played on her ripe
lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes, which parted
thence as pearls from diamonds dropp'd."
When the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the anxious parent
looked at his loved treasure, first fearfully, and then a happy smile
seemed to say, "Thank God, here at least she is safe from every storm!"
with that a closer embrace pressed her to his heart. "My father!" were
the first words she attempted to articulate. "Adelaide," interrupted
the old man, "whatever may have been his errors, you will, on reading
that letter, easily believe I no longer resent them. I erred deeply,
sinfully, in not receiving the prodigal son when he first implored my
forgiveness; but passion blinded me, and I have been severely punished.
I knew him not then! Oh! did he live now, my heart would warmly open to
him." Adelaide was nearly suffocated with her sobs. O'Sullivan supported
her to the window for air: for the elemental strife was now over, and
the rushing torrents had ceased to fall. The rippling waters of the lake
laughed in the beams of the sun, and softly rolled on their verdant
banks. Every bough waved in the wanton air, and from bush and brake
innumerable birds poured forth joyful melody. The cottage cur once more
barked at the stranger, and the peaceful herds again grazed the green
islets. Adelaide felt the composing power of the scene, and, drying her
tears, read the letter she had received.
oeTO CORNELIUS O'SULLIVAN, ESQUIREoe.
The misery I feel at this moment is not less, than that which rent
my heart when last I addressed you. Time has but made the
remembrance of my beloved Rose dearer, more afflicting to my soul;
and her child, who for nineteen years has been my only earthly
happiness, I now resign, as the sole reparation I can make, to
Heaven and to you, for the errors of that guilty course, which have
not been expiated by years of misery and penitence. I once again
implore your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have occasioned
you. Oh, my God! what a wreck of happiness I have made for myself
and others! I have been a misfortune to all connected with me. What
a stab must I not give to my daughter's heart, when I tell her we
part _to meet no more_! What tears of bitter anguish will she not
shed, when she hears the recital of those misdeeds, so degrading to
the memory of the father, whom she fondly thinks the first of human
beings! Yet the misery of her mind on hearing my errors would be
felicity compared to the anguish mine has endured, when, for her
sake, I have undergone the martyrdom of her praises. My lovely
child!--Had you seen the happy smiles, the endearing caresses, with
which she bid me good night, but a few minutes ago, and known the
_despair_ of my soul, as I thought, never shall I behold that
unclouded smile again; but once more hear those words, you would
say, the forfeit of his guilt is paid; and lament for the
unfortunate being you have hitherto cursed. By every sacred name,
by the memory of her sainted mother, by the agonies of a wretched
father, I conjure you, protect, cherish, and console my child. All
that a parent's heart could wish, all that the daughter of Rose
should be, she is--and we part for ever. I shall not survive to
have my miserable days cheered by the affection, with which I know
you will treat the inheritor of the virtues of your beloved Rose,
but my last moments will be brightened by the joyous hope----
"Enclosed you will find papers written at a calmer moment, for the
benefit of Adelaide--pardon him you once called son. As you value
your eternal hopes, I charge you to be kind to my child. She has
never offended you; her mother's form is renewed in hers; her
mother's virtues perpetuated in her mind. Say not that Rose exists
no more--in Adelaide she is again restored to your arms."
Adelaide had wept, when there was something of consolation, of
tenderness, in her emotions. But now her anguish admitted not of tears;
the universe presented but one idea to her mind--the agony of her
father's soul when his hand traced the words her eyes rested on.
O'Sullivan addressed her in accents of the tenderest affection; she
answered him but by that bitter smile, with which misery sometimes loves
to make her devoted victims confess her empire. He was alarmed by her
fixed looks, and said, "Rouse yourself, Adelaide; I will leave you to
compose your agitated feelings, but not in solitude: come with me to the
companion of many a sad moment." He opened an inner door, and grasping
her hand with convulsive earnestness, said, "There is your mother's
portrait; and at the foot of that altar she daily poured forth her
grateful thanksgivings. There the supplications of her father daily
ascend to the throne of grace." He hurried away, and Adelaide long and
fervently prayed in a spot so hallowed. Her tears again flowed, as she
turned to gaze on the resemblance of that form, which had never blessed
her conscious sight, and mournfully exclaimed, "Both, both lost to me!"
Rose had been drawn as Astarte inscribing her lover's name on the sand.
The dejected expression of her heavenly countenance sadly contrasted the
brilliant beauty of her youthful charms. Was it the melancholy of
_Astarte_ the painter's art depicted? or had the fair being, whose form
he traced, been already struck by the hand of sorrow? O'Sullivan's
grief was daily renewed as his heart whispered, "Not thus my child
looked under this roof.--So soon was all her innocent gaiety gone?"
Adelaide was so absorbed by the ideas which rose in her mind, that she
did not perceive the entrance of nurse, who came to perform her diurnal
task of dressing the altar, and who standing behind her, now said,
"That's the picture, dear, that Mr. Mordaunt sent his honour from
London, six months after Miss Rose married him--an unlucky day that
same! And a black-hearted false man he was, to leave my sweet angel, and
run away wid another woman." Fire flashed from Adelaide's eye; the
indignation which deprived her of utterance was expressed in her whole
figure. Nurse awed, and as it were fascinated, by a look from which she
could not withdraw her gaze, stared at her for a second or two, and then
evidently terrified, exclaimed, "The blessed powers presarve me!--Who
are you?--What are you? You're the very moral of Miss Rose! What brings
you in her room this day of the year? No mortal has ever darkened the
door since she died but myself and his honour. You're like enough to be
her fetch, come in the storm to take him away from us. I pray God I may
die first," continued she, weeping bitterly: "my heart was broke when I
lost my sweet child. I trust in his mercy I haven't lived on these weary
years, to drag my ould bones to his grave!"
"Dear, dear nurse," said Adelaide, kissing her affectionately, smiles
and tears struggling for mastery in her eyes, "I'm not come to take him
away from you, but to make you both happy--I'm your own Rose's
daughter." The old woman set up a shout of joy, and kissed her, and
hugged her, and drew back to a little distance, resting her hands on
Adelaide's shoulders to look at her from time to time, saying, "The very
moral of her! the very moral of her! Her daughter! You wouldn't be so
mischievous as to make an ould body crazy? It's not joking you are,
jewel?"