H. M.
LETTER XXIV.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
“Tous s’évanouit sous les cieux,
Chaque instant varie a nos yeux
Le tableau mouvant de la vie.”
Alas! that even this solitude where all seems
“The world forgetting, by the world forgot.”
should be subject to that mutability of fate which governs the busiest haunts of man. Is it possible, that among these dear ruins, where all the “life of life” has been restored to me, the worst of human pangs should assail my full all-confiding heart. And yet I am jealous only on surmise: but who was ever jealous on conviction; for where is the heart so weak, so mean as to cherish the passion when betrayed by the object? I have already mentioned to you the incongruities which so forcibly struck me in Glorvina’s boudoir. Since the evening, the happy evening in which I first visited it, I have often stolen thither when I knew her elsewhere engaged, but always found it locked till this morning, when I perceived the door standing open. It seemed as though its mistress had but just left it, for a chair was placed near the window, which was open, and her book and work-basket lay on the seat. I mechanically took up the book, it was my own Eloisa, and was marked with a slip of paper in that page where the character of Wolmar is described; I read through the passage, I was throwing it by, when some writing on the paper mark caught my eye; supposing it to be Glorvina’s, I endeavoured to decypher the lines, and read as follows: “Professions, my lovely friend, are for the world. But I would at least have you believe that my friendship, like gold, though not sonorous, is indestructible.” This was all I could make out—and this I read a hundred times—the hand-writing was a man’s—but it was not the priest’s—it could not be her father’s. And yet I thought the hand was not entirely unknown to me, though it appeared disguised. I was still engaged in gazing on the sybil leaf when I heard Glorvina approach. I never was mistaken in her little feet’s light bound, for she seldom walks; and hastily replacing the book, I appeared deeply engaged in looking over a fine atlas that lay open on the table. She seemed surprised at my appearance, so much so, that I felt the necessity for apologizing for my intrusion. “But,” said I, “an immunity granted by you is too precious to be neglected, and if I have not oftener availed myself of my valued privileges, I assure you the fault was not mine.”
Without noticing my inuendo she only bowed her head, and asked me with a smile, “what favourite spot on the globe I was tracing with such earnestness,” when her entrance had interrupted my geographic pursuits.
I placed my finger on that point of the northwest shores of Ireland, where we then stood, and said in the language of St. Preux, “The world, in my imagination, is divided into two regions—that where she is—and that where she is not.”
With an air of bewitching insinuation, she placed her hand on my shoulder, and with a faint blush and a little smile shook her head, and looked up in my face, with a glance half incredulous—half tender. I kissed the hand by whose pressure I was thus honoured, and said, “professions, my lovely friend, are for the world, but I would at least have you believe, that my friendship, like gold, though not sonorous, is indestructible.”
This I said, in the irrascibility of my jealous heart, for, though too warm for another, oh! how cold for me! Glorviria started as I spoke, I thought changed colour! while at intervals she repeated, “strange!—nor is this the only coincidence!”
“Coincidence!” I eagerly repeated, but she affected not to hear me, and appeared busily engaged in selecting for herself a bouquet from the flowers which filled one of those vases I before noticed to you. “And is that beautiful vase,” said I, “another family antiquity? it looks as though it stole its elegant form from an Estrucan model: is this too an effort of ancient Irish taste!”
“No,” said she, I thought confusedly, “I believe it came from Italy.”
“Has it been long in the possession of the family?” said I, with persevering impertinence. “It was a present from a friend of my father’s,” she replied, colouring, “to me!” The bell at that moment rang for breakfast, away she flew, apparently pleased to be released from my importunities.
“A friend of her father’s!” and who can this friend be, whose delicacy of judgment so nicely adapts the gifts to the taste of her on whom they are lavished. For, undoubtedly, the same hand that made the offering of the vases, presented also those other portable elegancies which are so strongly contrasted by the rude original furniture of the Boudoir. The tasteful donneur and author of that letter whose torn fragment betrayed the sentiment of no common mind, are certainly one and the same person. Yet, who visits the castle? scarcely any one; the pride and circumstances of the Prince equally forbid it. Sometimes, though rarely, an old Milesian cousin, or poor relation will drop in, but those of them that I have seen, are mere commonplace people. I have indeed heard the Prince speak of a cousin in the Spanish service, and a nephew in the Irish brigades, now in Germany. But the cousin is an old man, and the nephew he has not seen since he was a child. Yet, after all, these presents may have come from one of those relatives; if so, as Glorvina has no recollection of either, how I should curse that jealous temper which has purchased for me some moments of torturing doubts. I remember you used often to say, that any woman could pique me into love by affecting indifference, and that the native jealousy of my disposition would always render me the slave of any woman who knew how to play upon my dominant passion. The fact is, when my heart erects an idol for its secret homage, it is madness to think that another should even bow at the shrine, much less that his offerings should be propitiously received.
But it is the silence of Glorvina on the subject of this generous friend, that distracts me; if, after all—oh! it is impossible—it is sacrilege against heaven to doubt her! She practised in deception! she, whose every look, every motion betrays a soul that is all truth, innocence, and virtue! I have endeavoured to sound the priest on the subject, and affected to admire the vases; repeating the same questions with which I had teased Glorvina. But he, too, carelessly replied, “they were given her by a friend of her father’s.”