“There were many amongst Lord Glenarvon’s servants who were acquainted with my secret. Through every trouble and some danger I followed him; nor boast much of having felt no woman’s fear; for who that loves can fear. I will not dwell upon these moments of my life: they were the only hours of joy, which brightened over a career of misery and gloom. Whilst loved by the object of one’s entire devotion—whilst surrounded by gaiety and amusement, the voice of conscience is seldom heard; and, I will confess it, at this time I fancied myself happy. I was Glenarvon’s mistress; and I knew not another wish upon earth. In the course of the three years, passed with him in England and in Italy, I became mother of a child, and Clare, my little son, was dear to his father. But after his birth, he forsook me.
“We were in England at the time, at the house of one of his friends, when he first intimated to me the necessity of his leaving me. He had resolved, he said, to return to Florence, and I was in too weak a state of health to permit my accompanying him. I entreated, I implored for permission to make the attempt. He paused for some time, and then, as if unable to refuse me, he consented—reluctantly, I will own it; but still he said that I should go. He never appeared more fond, more kind than the evening before his departure. That evening, I supped with him and his friends. He seemed tired; and asked me more than once if I would not go to rest. His servant, a countryman of ours, by name O’Kelly, brought me a glass with something in it, which he bade me drink; but I would not. Lord Glenarvon came to me, and bade me take it.” “If it were poison,” I said fondly, “I would take it from your hands, so that I might but die upon your bosom.” “It is not poison,” he said, “Alice, but what many a fine lady in London cannot rest without. You will need repose; you are going a long journey to-morrow; drink it love; and mayest thou sleep in peace.” I took the draught and slumbered, even while reposing in his arms....
“Oh my father, he left me.—I awoke to hear that he was gone—to feel a misery, I never can describe. From that day, I fell into a dangerous illness. I knew not what I said or did. I heard, on recovering, that my lord had taken another mistress, and was about to marry; that he had provided for me with money; that he had left me my child. I resolved to follow:—I recovered in that hope alone. I went over to Ireland:—the gates of the abbey were shut against me. Mr. Hard Head, a friend of my lord’s whom I once named to you, met me as I stood an helpless outcast, in my own country; he spoke to me of love; I shuddered at the words.—The well known sound of kindness. “Never, never,” I said, as I madly sought to enter the gates which were closed against me.—O’Kelly passed me:—I knelt to him. Was he man—had he human feelings? In mercy oh my God, in mercy hear me, let me behold him again. I wrote, I know not what I wrote. My letters, my threats, my supplications were answered with insult—every thing, every thing was refused me....
“It was at night, in the dark night, my father, that they took my boy—my Clare, and tore him from my bosom.... Yes, my sleeping boy was torn by ruffian hands from my bosom. Oh! take my life, but not my child. Villains! by what authority do you rob me of my treasure? Say, in whose name you do this cruel deed. “It is by order of our master Lord Glenarvon.” I heard no more; yet in the convulsive grasp of agony, I clasped the boy to my breast. “Now tear him from his mother,” I cried, “if you have the heart;” and my strength was such that they seemed astonished at my power of resistance. They knew not the force of terror, when the heart’s pulse beats in every throb, for more than life. The boy clung to me for support. “Save, save me,” he cried. I knelt before the barbarians—my shrieks were vain—they tore him from me.—I felt the last pressure of his little arms—my Clare—my child—my boy.—Never, oh never, shall I see him again. Oh wretched mother! my boy, my hope is gone.—How often have I watched those bright beaming eyes, when care and despondency had sunk me into misery!—how oft that radiant smile has cheered when thy father cruelly had torn my heart! now never, never, shall I behold him more....
“Linden had heard of my disgrace and misery; he had written to me, but he knew not where I was....
“I will sail to-morrow, if I but reach Cork.—I have proved the ruin of a whole family.—I hear Linden has enlisted with the rioters. A friend of his met me and spoke to me of him, and of you my father. He promised to keep my secret: yet if he betrays me, I shall be far away before you hear of my fate.—I grieve for the troubles of my country.—All the malcontents flock together from every side to Belfont. Lord Glenarvon hears their grievances:—his house is the asylum of the unfortunate:—I alone am excluded from its walls.—Farewell to Ireland, and to my dear father.—I saw my brother Garlace pass; he went through the court to St. Alvin, with many other young men. They talked loudly and gaily: he little thought that the wretch who hid her face from them was his sister—his own—his only sister, of whom he was once so fond. I saw Miss St. Clare too; but I never saw Glenarvon....
“From my miserable Lodging, Cork,
Thursday Night.
“The measure of my calamity is at its full. The last pang of a breaking heart is over.—My father forgive me.—We sailed: a storm has driven us back. I shall leave Ireland no more. The object of my voyage is over: I am returned to die ... what more is left me ... I cannot write ... I have lost every thing.
“Sunday.