A dead silence ensued; for the emotion of the priest would not suffer him to proceed. Regardless of the prostrate throng, she glided up the hall to the bier, and gazing earnestly on her father, smiled sadly, and waved her hand; then kissing his cheek, she threw her veil over his face, and putting her finger on her lip, as if to impose silence, softly exclaimed, “Hush! he does not suffer now! he sleeps! it was I who lulled him to repose with the song his heart loves!” and then kneeling beside him, in a voice scarcely human, she breathed out a soul-rending air she had been accustomed to sing to her father from her earliest infancy. The silence of compassion, of horror, which breathed around, was alone interrupted by her song of grief, while no eye save hers was dry. Abruptly breaking off her plaintive strains, she drew the veil from her father’s face, and suddenly averting her gaze from his livid features, it wandered from the Earl of M. to his son; while with a piercing shriek she exclaimed, “Which of you murdered my father?” then looking tenderly on the younger M. (whose eyes not less wild than her own had followed her every motion,) she softly added, “It was not you, my love!” and with a loud convulsive laugh she fell lifeless into the priest’s arms, who was the first who had the presence of mind to think of removing the still lovely maniac. The rival father and his unhappy son withdrew at the same moment; and when the priest (having disposed of his unfortunate charge) returned to seek them, he found them both in the same apartment, but at a considerable distance from each other, both buried in silent emotion—both labouring under the violence of their respective feelings. The priest attempted some words expressive of consolation to the younger M. who seemed most the victim of uncontrollable affliction; but with a firm manner the earl interrupted him:—“My good friend,” said he, “this is no time for words; nature and feeling claim their prerogative, and are not to be denied. Your venerable friend is no more, but he has ceased to suffer: the afflicted and angelic being, whose affecting sorrows so recently wrung our hearts with agony, has still, I trust, many years of felicity and health in store to compensate for her early trials; from henceforth I shall consider her as the child of my adoption. For myself, the motives by which my apparently extraordinary conduct was governed were pure and disinterested; though the means by which I endeavoured to effect my laudable purpose were perhaps not strictly justifiable in the eye of rigid, undeviating integrity. For this young man!” he paused, and fixing his eyes on his son till they filled with tears, the strongest emotions agitating his frame; Mr. M. rushed forward, and fell on his father’s breast. The earl pressed him to his heart, and putting his hands in those of Father John, he said, “To your care and tenderness I commend my child; and from you,” he added, addressing his son, “I shall expect the developement of that mystery, which is as yet dark and unfathomable. Remain here till we fully understand each other. I depart to night for M———— house. It is reserved for you to assist this worthy man in the last solemn office of friendship and humanity. It is reserved for you to watch over and cherish that suffering angel, for whose future happiness we both mutually stand accountable.” With these words Lord M. again embraced his almost lifeless son, and pressing the hand of the priest withdrew. Father John followed him; but importunities were fruitless; his horses were ordered, and having put a bank-note of considerable amount into his hands to defray the funeral expenses, he departed from Inismore.
In the course of four days, the remains of the Prince were consigned to the tomb. Glorvina’s health and fine constitution were already prevailing over her disorder and acute sensibility; her senses were gradually returning, and only appeared subject to wander when a sense of her recent suffering struck on her heart. The old nurse was the first who ventured to mention to her that her unhappy lover was in the house; but though she appeared struck and deeply affected by the intelligence, she never mentioned his name.
Meantime Mr. M., owing to his recent sufferings of mind and body, was seized with a slow fever and confined for many days to his bed. A physician of eminence in the country had taken up his residence at Inismore, and a courier daily passed between the castle and M———— house, with his reports of the health of the two patients to the Earl. In a fortnight they were both so far recovered, as to remove from their respective bedrooms to an adjoining apartment. The benevolent priest, who day and night had watched over them, undertook to prepare Glorvina for the reception of Mr. M. whose life seemed to hang upon the restoration of hers. When she heard that he was still in the castle, and had just escaped from the jaws of death, she shuddered and changed colour; and with a faint voice inquired for his father. When she learnt he had left the castle on the night when she had last seen him, she seemed to feel much satisfaction, and said, “What an extraordinary circumstance! What a mystery!—the father and the son!” She paused, and a faint hectic coloured her pale cheek; then added, “unfortunate and imprudent young man! Will his father forgive and receive him?”
“He is dearer than ever to his father’s heart,” said the priest, “the first use he made of his returning health, was to write to his inestimable parent, confessing without the least reservation every incident of his late extraordinary adventure.”
“And when does he leave the castle!” inarticulately demanded Glorvina.
“That rests with you,” replied the priest.
She turned aside her head and sighed heavily then bursting into tears, flung her arms affectionately round her beloved preceptor, and cried, “I have now no father but you—act for me as such.” The priest pressed her to his heart, and, drawing a letter from his bosom, said, “This is from one who pants to become your father in the strictest sense of the word; it is from Lord M., but though addressed to his son, it is equally intended for your perusal. That son, that friend, that lover, whose life and happiness now rests in your hands, in all the powerful emotions of hope, doubt, anxiety, and expectation, now waits to be admitted to your presence.”
Glorvina, gasping for breath, caught hold of the priest’s arm, then sunk back upon her seat, and covered her face with her hands. The priest withdrew, and in a few minutes returned, leading in the agitated invalid; then placing the hands of the almost lifeless Glorvina in his, retired. He felt the mutual delicacy of their situation, and forbore to heighten it by his presence.
Two hours had elapsed before the venerable priest again sought the two objects dearest to his heart; he found Glorvina overwhelmed with soft emotion, her cheek covered with blushes, and her hand clasped in that of the interesting invalid, whose flushing colour and animated eyes spoke the return of health and happiness; not indeed confirmed, but fed by sanguine hope; such hope as the heart of a mourning child could give to the object of her heart’s first passion, in that era of filial grief, when sorrow is mellowed by reason, and soothed by religion into a tender but not ungracious melancholy. The good priest embraced and blessed them alternately, then, seated between them, read aloud the letter of Lord M.