H. M.
LETTER XXVIII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
Plato compares the soul to a small republic, of which the reasoning and judging powers are stationed in the head as in a citadel, and of which the senses are the guards or servants.
Alas! my dear friend, this republic is with me all anarchy and confusion, and its guards, disordered and overwhelmed, can no longer afford it protection. I would be calm, and give a succinct account of my return to Inismore; but impetuous feelings rush over the recollection of trivial circumstances, and all concentrate on that fatal point which transfixes every thought, every motion of my soul.
Suffice it to say, that our second reception at the mansion of the O’D’s had lost nothing of that cordiality which distinguished our first; but neither the cheerful kindness of the parents, nor the blandishments of the charming daughters could allay that burning impatience which fired my bosom to return to Glorvina, after the tedious absence of five long days. All night I tossed on my pillow in the restless agitation of expected bliss, and with the dawn of that day on which I hoped once more to taste “the life of life,” I arose and flew to the priests room to chide his tardiness. Early as it was I found he had already left his apartment, and as I turned from the door to seek him, I perceived a written paper lying on the floor. I took it up, and, carelessly glancing my eye over it, discovered that it was a receipt from the Prince’s inexorable creditor, who (as Father John informed me) refused to take the farm off his hands: but what was my amazement to find that this receipt was an acknowledgment for those jewels which I had so often seen stealing their lustre from Glorvina’s charms; and which were now individually mentioned, and given in lieu of the rent for this very farm, by which the Prince was so materially injured. The blood boiled in my veins, I could have annihilated this rascally cold-hearted landlord; I could have wept on the neck of the unfortunate Prince; I could have fallen at the feet of Glor-vina and worshipped her as the first of the Almighty’s works. Never in the midst of all my artificial wants, my boundless and craving extravagance, did I ever feel the want of riches as at this moment, when a small part of what I had so worthlessly flung away, would have saved the pride of a noble, an indignant spirit from a deep and deadly wound and spared the heart of filial solicitude and tender sensibility, many a pang or tortured feelings. The rent of the farm was a hundred pounds per annum. The Prince, I understood, was three years in arrear; yet, though there were no diamonds, and not many pearls, I should suppose the jewels were worth more than the sum for which they were given. *
While I stood burning with indignation, the paper still trembling in my hand, I heard the footstep of the priest; I let fall the paper; he advanced, snatched it up, and put it in his pocket-book, with an air of self-reprehension that determined me to conceal the knowledge so accidentally acquired. Having left our adieux for our courteous hosts with one of the young men, we at last set out for Inismore. The idea of so soon meeting my soul’s precious Glorvina, banished every idea less delightful.
* I have been informed that a descendant of the provincial
kings of Connaught parted not many years back with his
golden crown which for so many ages encircled the royal
brows of his ancestors.
“Our meeting (said I) will be attended with a new and touching interest, the sweet result of that perfect intelligence which now for the first time subsisted between us, and which stole its birth from that tender and delicious glance which love first bestowed on me beneath the cypress tree of the rustic cemetery.”
Already I beheld the “air-lifted” figure of Glorvina floating towards me. Already I felt the soft hands tremble in mine, and gazed on the deep suffusion of her kindling blushes, the ardent welcome of her bashful eyes, and all that dissolving and impassioned langour, with which she would resign herself to the sweet abandonment of her soul’s chastened tenderness, and the fullest confidence in that adoring heart which had now unequivocally assured her of its homage and eternal fealty. In short, I had resolved to confess my name and rank to Glorvina, to offer her my hand, and to trust to the affection of our fond and indulgent fathers for forgiveness.
Thus warmed by the visions of my heated fan cy I could no longer stifle my impatience; and when we were within seven miles of the castle I told the priest, who was ambling slowly on, that I would be his avant-courier, and clapping spurs to my horse soon lost sight of my tardy companion.
At the draw-bridge I met one of the servants to whom I gave the panting animal, and flew, rather than walked, to the castle. At its portals stood the old nurse; she almost embraced me, and I almost returned the caress; but with a sorrowful countenance she informed me that the Prince was dangerously ill, and had not left his bed since our departure; that things altogether were going on but poorly; and that she was sure the sight of me would do her young lady’s heart good, for that she did nothing but weep all day, and sit by her father’s bed all night. She then informed me that Glorvina was alone in the boudoir. With a thousand pulses fluttering at my breast, full of the idea of stealing on the melancholy solitude of my pensive love, with a beating heart and noiseless step, I approached the sacred asylum of innocence. The door lay partly open; Glorvina was seated at a table, and apparently engaged in writing a letter, I paused a moment for breath ere I advanced. Glorvina at the same instant raised her head from the paper, read over what she had written, and wept bitterly; then wrote again—paused, sighed, and drew a letter from her bosom—(yes, her bosom) which she perused, often waving her head, and sighing deeply, and wiping away the tears that dimmed her eyes, while once a cherub smile stole on her lip (that smile I once thought all my own;) then folding up the letter, she pressed it to her lips, and consigning it to her bosom, exclaimed, “First and best of men!” What else she murmured I could not distinguish; but as if the perusal of this prized letter had renovated every drooping spirit, she ceased to weep, and wrote with greater earnestness than before.
Motionless, transfixed, I leaned for support against the frame of the door, until Glorvina, having finished her letter and sealed it, arose to depart; then I had the presence of mind to steal away and conceal myself in a dark recess of the corridor. Yet, though unseen, I saw her wipe away the traces of her tears from her cheek, and pass me with a composed and almost cheerful air. I softly followed, and looking down the dark abyss of the steep well stairs, which she rapidly descended, I perceived her put her letter in the hands of the little post-boy, who hurried away with it. Impelled by the impetuous feelings of the moment I was—yes, I was so far forgetful of myself, my principle, and pride, of every sentiment save love and jealousy, that I was on the point of following the boy, snatching the letter, and learning the address of this mysterious correspondent, this “First and best of men.” But the natural dignity of my vehement, yet undebased mind, saved me a meanness I should never have forgiven: for what right had I forcibly to possess myself of another’s secret? I turned back to a window in the corridor and beheld Glor-vina’s little herald mounted on his mule riding off, while she, standing at the gate, pursued him with that impatient look so strongly indicative of her ardent character. When he was out of sight she withdrew, and the next minute I heard her stealing towards her father’s room. Unable to bear her presence, I flew to mine; that apartment I had lately occupied with a heart so redolent of bliss—a heart that now sunk beneath the unexpected blow which crushed all its new-born hopes, and I feared annihilated forever its sweet but shortlived felicity. “And is this, then,” I exclaimed, “the fond re-union my fancy painted in such glowing colours?” God of heaven! at the very moment when my thoughts and affections, forced for a tedious interval from the object of their idolatry, like a compressed spring set free, bounded with new vigour to their native bias. Yet was not the disappointment of my own individual hope scarcely more agonizing than the destruction of that consciousness which, in giving one perfect being to my view, redeemed the species in my misanthropic opinion.
“O Glorvina!” I passionately added, “if even thou, fair being, reared in thy native wilds and native solitudes art deceptive, artful, imposing, deep, deep in all the wiles of hypocrisy, then is the original sin of our nature unredeemed; vice the innate principle of our being—and those who preach the existence of virtue but idle dreamers who fancy that in others to themselves unknown And yet, sweet innocent, if thou art more sinned against than sinning if the phantoms of a jealous brain—oh! ’tis impossible! The ardent kiss impressed upon the senseless paper, which thy breast enshrined!!! Was the letter of a friend thus treasured? When was the letter of a friend thus answered with tears, with smiles, with blushes, and with sighs? This, this is love’s own language. Besides, Glorvina is not formed for friendship; the moderate feelings of her burning soul are already divided in affection for her father, and grateful esteem for her tutor; and she who, when loved, must be loved to madness, will scarcely feel less passion than she inspires.”
While thought after thought thus chased each other down, like the mutinous billows of a stormy ocean, I continued pacing my chamber with quick and heavy strides; forgetful that the Prince’s room lay immediately beneath me. Ere that thought occurred, some one softly opened the door. I turned savagely round—it was Glorvina! Impulsively I rushed to meet her; but impulsively recoiled: while she, with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, sprung towards me, and by my sudden retreat would have fallen at my feet, but that my willing arms extended involuntarily to receive her. Yet, it was no longer the almost sacred person of the once all-innocent, all-ingenuous Glorvina they encircled; but still they twined round the loveliest form, the most charming, the most dangerous of human beings The enchantress!—With what exquisite modesty she faintly endeavoured to extricate herself from my embrace, yet with what willing weakness, which seemed to triumph in its own debility, she panted on my bosom, wearied by the exertion which vainly sought her release. Oh! at that moment the world was forgotten—the whole universe was Glorvina! My soul’s eternal welfare was not more precious at that moment than Glorvina! while my passion seemed now to derive its ardour from the overflowing energy of those bitter sentiments which had preceded its revival. Glorvina, with an effort, flung herself from me. Virtue, indignant yet merciful, forgiving while it arraigned, beamed in her eyes. I fell at her feet;
I pressed her hand to my throbbing temples and burning lips. “Forgive me,” I exclaimed, “for I know not what I do.” She threw herself on a seat, and covered her face with her hands, while the tears trickled through her fingers. Oh! there was a time when tears from those eyes—but now they only recalled to my recollection the last I had seen her shed. I started from her feet and walked towards the window, near that couch where her watchful and charitable attention first awakened the germ of gratitude and love which has since blown into such full, such fatal existence. I leaned my head against the window-frame for support, its painful throb was so violent; I felt as though it were lacerating in a thousand places; and the sigh which involuntarily breathed from my lips seemed almost to burst the heart from whence it flowed.
Glorvina arose: with an air tenderly compassionate, yet reproachful, she advanced and took one of my hands. “My dear friend,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? has anything occurred to disturb you, or to awaken this extraordinary emotion? Father John! where is he? why does he not accompany you? Speak!—does any new misfortune threaten us? does it touch my father? Oh! in mercy say it does not! but release me from the torture of suspense.”
“No, no,” I peevishly replied; “set your heart at rest, it is nothing; nothing at least that concerns you; it is me, me only it concerns.”
“And therefore, Mortimer, is it nothing to Glorvina,” she softly replied, and with one of those natural motions so incidental to the simplicity of her manners, she threw her hand on my shoulder, and leaning her head on it raised her eloquent, her tearful eyes to mine. Oh! while the bright drops hung upon her cheek’s faded rose, with what difficulty I restrained the impulse that tempted me to gather them with my lips; while she, like a ministering angel, again took my hand, and applying her fingers to my wrist, said, with a sad smile, “You know I am a skilful little doctress.”
The feelings I experienced when those lovely fingers first applied their pressure to my arm, rushed on my recollection: her touch had lost nothing of its electric power: my emotions at that moment were indescribable.
“Oh, good God, how ill you are!” she exclaimed. “How wild your pulse; how feverish your looks! You have overheated yourself; you were unequal to such a journey in such weather; you who have been so lately an invalid. I beseech you to throw yourself on the bed, and endeavour to take some repose; meantime I will send my nurse with some refreshment to you. How could I be so blind as not to see at once how ill you were!”
Glad, for the present, of any pretext to conceal the nature of my real disorder, I confessed I was indeed ill, (and, in fact, I was physically as well as morally so; for my last day’s journey brought on that nervous headach I have suffered so much from;) while she, all tender solicitude and compassion, flew to prepare me a composing draught. But I was not now to be deceived: this was pity, mere pity. Thus a thousand times have I seen her act by the wretches who were first introduced to her notice through the medium of that reputation which her distinguished humanity had obtained for her among the diseased and the unfortunate.
I had but just sunk upon the bed, overcome by fatigue and the vehemence of my emotions, when the old nurse entered the room. She said she had brought me a composing draught from the lady Glorvina, who had kissed the cup, after the old Irish fashion, * and bade me to drink it for her sake.
* To this ancient and general custom Goldsmith allude in his
Deserted Village:—=
“And kissed the cup to pass it to the rest.”
“Then I pledge her,” said I, “with the same truth she did me,” and I eagerly quaffed off the nectar her hand had prepared. Meantime the nurse took her station by the bed-side with some appropriate reference to her former attendance there, and the generosity with which that attendance was rewarded; for I had imprudently apportioned my donation rather to my real than apparent rank.
While I was glad that this talkative old woman had fallen in my way; for though I knew I had nothing to hope from that incorruptible fidelity which was grounded on her attachment to her beloved nursling, and her affection for the family she had so long served, yet I had everything to expect from the garrulous simplicity of her character, and her love of what she calls Seanachus, or telling long stories of the Inismore family; and while I was thinking how I should put my Jesuitical scheme into execution, and she was talking as usual I know not what, the beautiful “Breviare du Sentiment” caught my eye lying on the floor:—Glorvina must have dropped it on her first entrance. I desired the nurse to bring it to me; who blessed her stars, and wondered how her child could be so careless: a thing too she valued so much. At that moment it struck me that this Brevaire, the furniture of the boudoir, the vases, and the fragment of a letter, were all connected with this mysterious friend, this “first and best of men.” I shuddered as I held it, and forgot the snow-drops it contained; yet, assuming a composure as I examined its cover, I asked the nurse if she thought I could procure such another in the next market town.
The old woman held her sides while she laughed at the idea; then folding her arms on her knees with that gossiping air which she always assumed when in a mood peculiarly loquacious, she assured me that such a book could not be got in all Ireland; for that it had come from foreign parts to her young lady.
“And who sent it?” I demanded.
“Why, nobody sent it, (she simply replied,) he brought it himself.”
“Who?” said I.
She stammered and paused.
“Then, I suppose,” she added, “of course, you never heard”——-
“What?” I eagerly asked, with an air of curiosity and amazement. As these are two emotions a common mind is most susceptble of feeling and most anxious to excite, I found little difficulty in artfully leading on the old woman by degrees, till at last I obtained from her, almost unawares to herself, the following particulars:
On a stormy night, in the spring of 17——, during that fatal period when the scarcely cicatrised wounds of this unhappy country bled afresh beneath the uplifted sword of civil contention; when the bonds of human amity were rent asunder, and every man regarded his neighbour with suspicion or considered him with fear; a stranger of noble stature, muffled in a long, dark cloak, appeared in the great hall of Inismore, and requested an interview with the Prince. The Prince had retired to rest, and being then in an ill state of health, deputed his daughter to receive the unknown visitant, as the priest was absent. The stranger was shown into an apartment adjoining the Prince’s, where Glorvina received him, and having remained for some time with him retired to her father’s room; and again, after a conference of some minutes, returned to the stranger, whom she conducted to the Prince’s bedside. On the same night, and after the stranger had passed two hours in the Prince’s chamber, the nurse received orders to prepare the bed and apartment which I now occupy for this mysterious guest, who from that time remained near three months at the castle; leaving it only occasionally for a few days, and always departing and returning under the veil of night.
The following summer he repeated his visit; bringing with him those presents which decorate Glorvina’s boudoir, except the carpet and vases, which were brought by a person who disappeared as soon as he had left them. During both these visits he gave up his time chiefly to Glorvina; reading to her, listening to her music, and walking with her early and late, but never without the priest or nurse, and seldom during the day.
In short, in the furor of the old woman’s garrulity, (who, however, discovered that her own information had not been acquired by the most justifiable means, having, she said, by chance, overheard a conversation which passed between the stranger and the Prince,) I found that this mysterious visitant was some unfortunate gentleman who had attached himself to the rebellious faction of the day, and who being pursued nearly to the gates of the castle of Inismore, had thrown himself on the mercy of the Prince; who, with that romantic sense of honour which distinguishes his chivalrous character, had not violated the trust thus forced on him, but granted an asylum to the unfortunate refugee; who, by the most prepossessing manners and eminent endowments, had dazzled the fancy and won the hearts of this unsuspecting and credulous family; while over the minds of Glorvina and her father he had obtained a boundless influence.
The nurse hinted that she believed it was still unsafe for the stranger to appear in this country for that he was more cautious of concealing himself in his last visit than his first; that she believed he lived in England; that he seemed to have money enough, “for he threw it about like a prince.” Not a servant in the castle, she added, but knew well enough how it was; but there was not one but would sooner die than betray him. His name she did not know; he was only known by the appellation of the gentleman. He was not young, but tall and very handsome. He could not speak Irish, and she had reason to think he had lived chiefly in America. She added, that I often reminded her of him, especially when I smiled and looked down. She was not certain whether he was expected that summer or not; but she believed the Prince frequently received letters from him.
The old woman was by no means aware how deeply she had been betrayed by her insatiate passion for hearing herself speak; while the curious and expressive idiom of her native tongue gave me more insight into the whole business than the most laboured phrase or minute detail could have done. By the time, however, she had finished her narrative, she began to have some “compunctious visitings of conscience.” she made me pass my honour I would not betray her to her young lady; for, she added, that if it got air it might come to the ears of Lord M———— who was the prince’s bitter enemy; and that it might be the ruin of the Prince; with a thousand other wild surmises suggested by her fears. I again repeated my assurances of secrecy; and the sound of her young lady’s bell summoning her to the Prince’s room, she left me, not forgetting to take with her the “Breviare du Sentiment.”
Again abandoned to my wretched self, the succeeding hour was passed in such a state of varied perturbation, that it would be as torturing to retrace my agonizing and successive reflections as it would be impossible to express them. In short, after a thousand vague conjectures, many to the prejudice, and a lingering few to the advantage of their object, I was led to believe (fatal conviction!) that the virgin rose of Glorvina’s affection had already shed its sweetness on a former, happier lover; and the partiality I had flattered myself in having awakened, was either the result of natural intuitive coquetry, or, in the long absence of her heart’s first object, a transient beam of that fire, which once illumined, is so difficult to extinguish, and which was nourished by my resemblance to him who had first fanned it into life.—What! I receive to my heart the faded spark, while another has basked in the vital flame! I contentedly gather this after-blow of tenderness, when another has inhaled the very essence of the nectarious blossoms? No! like the suffering mother, who wholly resigned her bosom’s idol rather than divide it with another, I will, with a single effort, tear this late adored image from my heart, though that heart break with the effort, rather than feed on the remnant of those favours on which another has already feasted. Yet to be thus deceived by a recluse, a child, a novice!—I who, turning revoltingly from the hackneyed artifices of female depravity in that world where art forever reigns, sought in the tenderness of secluded innocence and intelligent simplicity that heaven my soul had so long, so vainly panted to enjoy! Yet, even there—No! I cannot believe it She! Glofvina, false, deceptive! Oh, were the immaculate spirit of Truth embodied in a human form, it could not wear upon its radient brow a brighter, stronger trace of purity inviolable, and holy innocence than shines in the seraph countenance of Glorvina!
Besides, she never said she loved me. Said!—God of heaven! were words then necessary for such an avowal! Oh, Glorvina! thy melting glances, thy insidious smiles, thy ardent blushes, thy tender sighs, thy touching softness, and delicious tears; these, these are the sweet testimonies to which my heart appeals. These at least will speak for me, and say it was not the breath of vain presumption that nourished those hopes which now, in all their vigour, perish by the chilling blight of well-founded jealousy and mortal disappointment.
Two hours have elapsed since the nurse left me, supposing me to be asleep; no one has intruded, and I have employed the last hour in retracing to you the vicissitudes of this eventful day. You, who warned me of my fate, should learn the truth of your fatal prophecy. My father’s too; but he is avenged! and I have already expiated a deception, which, however innocent, was still deception.