When she rose from her supplications, she hastily returned the packet to her portfolio. "I will not trust myself with it again," thought she; "I have here no friend to soothe, to control my mind.—In a few days I shall be with Mrs. Temple."
There are minds, which are capable of an intensity of regret, that others can scarcely conceive. Long after it has lost the more tumultuous character of grief, it lies deep in the recesses of the heart. The cares, the pleasures of the world, may for a time conceal it, even from self-consciousness; but there it ever endures. The vigour of a strong mind may reduce it to temporary inertness, but it will at times break every bond, and vindicate its empire. Like the Genius of the eastern tale, who, though for ages confined in the casket by the seal of Solomon, rose when the signet of wisdom was broken, in the same awful might he had possessed, before reduced to submission by its coercive power.
Whilst in one room at Ballinamoyle a daughter mourned her father, in another a son defied his mother. Mr. Webberly was at that moment informing Mrs. O'Sullivan, he would, on the morrow, make his long-meditated proposal to Miss Wildenheim: he had fulfilled his promise of waiting till she was of age; and said, that if she was so unreasonable as to require still further delay, he could no longer comply, as the difference of a day might deprive him of Adelaide for ever. The Desmonds were to take their farewell on Caroline's birth-day; Miss Wildenheim would commence her journey to England on the following morning; and it was not at all likely Colonel Desmond would suffer her to depart, without making those offers some people thought would be accepted. This very idea made Mrs. O'Sullivan more eager in her entreaties, more authoritative in her commands to her son, to defer his intentions till their arrival at Webberly House. The conference ended in passion on both sides, he exclaiming, "By Gad, mother, you are never to be satisfied;—be damned if I stand shilly shally any longer!" "Then, Jack, you shan't have my blessing for an opthalmia; and you know that's better worth than the priest's, as the song says."
CHAPTER XVI.
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refin'd and clear—
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek;
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head.
Lady of the Lake.
That day which had nineteen times been passed at Ballinamoyle in solemn sadness, as the anniversary of the death of its lovely heiress, arrived once again—and was again marked by those outward signs of woe, which gratified the feelings of a disconsolate father, as a tribute of respect to the memory of her, who still in the freshest youth lived in his heart.
No stranger on that day approached the desolate mansion, to partake of its hospitality, or receive its charity. The domestics, habited in deep mourning, flitted about the halls and passages in total silence; every countenance was impressed by a dejection, that affected the most thoughtless with unusual seriousness—even Mrs. O'Sullivan's servants spoke in a whisper.