From the time the unhappy M. had come within the sight of those scenes which recalled all the recent circumstances of his life to memory, his heart had throbbed with a quickened pulse; even the scenery of M———— house had awakened his emotion; his enforced return thither; his brief and restless residence there; and the eager delight with which he flew from the desolate mansion of his father to the endearing circle of Inismore all rushed to his memory, and awakened that train of tender recollection he had lately endeavoured to stifle. Happy to seize on an occasion of escaping from the restraints the society of his insensible companions imposed, happier still to have an opportunity afforded him of visiting the neighbourhood of Inismore, every step of his journey to the Lodge was marked by the renewed existence of some powerful and latent emotion; and the latent agitation of his heart and feelings had reached their acme by the time he had arrived at the gate of that avenue from which the mountains of Inismore were discernible.
When he had reached the Lodge, a young lad, who was working in the grounds, replied to his inquiries, that an old woman was its only resident, that the ancient steward was dead, and that Lord M. had only remained there an hour.
This last intelligence overwhelmed Mr. M. with astonishment. To his further inquiries the boy only said, that as the report went that M———— house was undergoing some repair, it was probable his lord had gone on a visit to some of the neighbouring quality. He added that his lord ship’s own gentleman had accompanied him.
Mr. M. remained for a considerable time lost in thought; then throwing the bridle over his horse’s neck, folded his arms, and suffered it to take its own course: it was the same animal which had so often carried him to Inismore. When he had determined on following his father to the Lodge he had ordered a fresh horse; that which the groom led out was the same which Mr. M. had left behind him, and which, by becoming the companion of his singular adventure, had obtained a peculiar interest in his affections. When he had passed the avenue of the Lodge, the animal instinctively took to that path he had been accustomed to go; his instinct was too favourable to the secret wishes of the heart of his unhappy master; he smiled sadly, and suffered him to proceed. The evening was far advanced the sun had sunk in the horizon, as from an eminence he perceived the castle of Inismore. His heart throbbed with violence—a thousand hopes, a thousand wishes, a thousand fears agitated his breast: he dared not for a moment listen to the suggestions of either. Lost in the musings of his heart and imagination, he was already within a mile of Inismore. The world now disappeared—he descended rapidly to a wild and trackless shore, screened from the high road by a range of inaccessible cliffs. Twilight faintly lingered on the summit of the mountains only: the tide was out; and, crossing the strand, he found himself beneath those stupendous cliffs which shelter the western part of the peninsula of Inismore from the ocean. The violence of the waves had worn several defiles through the rocks, which commanded a near view of the ruined castle: it was involved in gloom and silence—all was dark, still, and solemn!—No lights issued from the windows—no noise cheered at intervals the silence of desolation.
A secret impulse still impelled the steps of Mr. M————, and the darkness of the night favoured his irresistible desire to satisfy the longings of his enamoured heart, by taking a last look at the shrine of its still worshipped idol. He proceeded cautiously through the rocks, and alighting, fastened his horse near a patch of herbage; then advanced towards the chapel—its gates were open—the silence of death hung over it. The rising moon, as it shone through the broken casements, flung round a dim religious light, and threw its quivering rays on that spot where he had first beheld Glorvina and her father engaged in the interesting ceremonies of their religion. And to think that even at that moment he breathed the air that she respired, and was within a few paces of the spot she inhabited!—Overcome by the conviction, he resigned himself to the delirium which involved his heart and senses; and, governed by the overpowering impulse of the moment, he proceeded along that colonade through which he had distinctly followed her and the Prince on the night of his first arrival at the castle. It seemed to his heated brain as though he still pursued those fine and striking forms which almost appeared but the phantoms of fancy’s creation.
On every mourning breeze he thought the sound of Glorvina’s voice was borne; and starting at the fall of every leaf, he almost expected to meet at each step the form of Father John, if not that of his faithless mistress; but the idea of her lover occurred not. The review of scenes so dear awakened only a recollection of past enjoyments; and in the fond dream of memory his present sufferings were for an interval suspended.
Scarcely aware of the approximation, he had already reached the lawn which fronted the castle, and which was strewed over with fragments of the mouldering ruins, and leaning behind a broken wall which screened him from observation, he indulged himself in contemplating that noble but decayed edifice where so many of the happiest and most blameless hours of his life had been enjoyed. His first glance was directed towards the casement of Glorvina’s room, but there nor in any other did the least glimmering of light appear. With a faultering step he advanced from his concealment towards the left wing of the castle, and snatched a hasty glance through the window of the banquetting hall. It was the hour in which the family were wont to assemble there. It was now impenetrably dark—he ventured to approach still closer, and fixed his eye to the glass; but nothing met the inquiry of his eager gaze save a piece of armour, on whose polished surface the moon’s random beams faintly played. His heart was chilled; yet, encouraged by the silent desolation that surrounded him, he ventured forward. The gates of the castle were partly open; the hall was empty and dark—he paused and listened—all was silent as the grave. His heart sunk within him—he almost wished to behold some human form, to hear some human sound. On either side, the doors of two large apartments stood open: he looked into each; all was chill and dark.
Grown desperate by gloomy fears, he proceeded rapidly up the stone stairs which wound through the centre of the building. He paused; and, leaning over the balustrade, listened for a considerable time; but when the echo of his footsteps had died away, all was again still as death. Horror-struck, yet doubting the evidence of his senses, to find himself thus far advanced in the interior of the castle, he remained for some time motionless—a thousand melancholy suggestions struck on his soul. With an impulse almost frantic he rushed to the corridor. The doors of the several rooms on either side lay open, and he thought by the moon’s doubtful light they seemed despoiled of their furniture.
While he stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound of Glorvina’s harp, born on the blast which sighed at intervals along the passage. At first he believed it was the illusion of his fancy disordered by the awful singularity of his peculiar situation; to satisfy at once his insupportable doubts he flew to that room where the harp of Glorvina always stood: like the rest it was unoccupied and dimly lit up by the moon beams. The harp of Glorvina, and the couch on which he had first sat by her, were the only articles it contained: the former was still breathing its wild melody when he entered, but he perceived the melancholy vibration was produced by the sea breeze (admitted by the open casement) which swept at intervals along its strings. Wholly overcome he fell on the couch—his heart seemed scarcely susceptible of pulsation—every nerve of his brain was strained almost to bursting—he gasped for breath. The gale of the ocean continued to sigh on the cords of the harp, and its plaintive tones went to his very soul, and roused those feelings so truly in unison with every sad impression. A few burning tears relieved him from an agony he was no longer able to endure; and he was now competent to draw some inference from the dreadful scene of desolation by which he was surrounded. The good old Prince was no more!—or his daughter was married! In either case it was probable the family had deserted the ruins of Inismore.
While absorbed in this heart-rending meditation, he saw a faint light gleaming on the ceiling of the room, and heard a footstep approaching. Unable to move, he sat breathless with expectation. An ancient female tottering and feeble, with a lantern in her hand, entered; and having fastened down the window, was creeping slowly along and muttering to herself: when she perceived the pale and ghastly figure of the stranger, she shrieked, let fall the light, and endeavoured to hobble away. Mr. M———— followed, and caught her by the arm: she redoubled her cries—it was with difficulty he could pacify her—while, as his heart fluttered on his lips, he could only say, “The lady Glorvina!—the Prince!—speak!—where are they?”