Manners: A Novel, Vol 3

by Madame Panache

When the visitors assembled in the breakfast-room, neither their host nor the priest appeared; and Theresa informed her guests, that the former always passed this day in solitude. The same depression which pervaded the rest of the house, seemed to exert its saturnine influence in this apartment also. Mrs. O'Sullivan and her son were both too much irritated, and each too completely engrossed in forming plans to circumvent the intentions of the other, to offer a single word of conversation. Adelaide and Miss Fitzcarril were occupied by a train of distressing reflections, little aware, that they were caused in the mind of each by the same event. The Miss Webberlys only interrupted the general silence, by occasionally indulging in that pettish crossness, which the sight of unparticipated sorrow always produces in weak and selfish minds, whilst their fretful words and looks terrified the timid little Caroline.

In the mean time Mr. O'Sullivan, after assisting in that service, by which the Catholic Church permits the living relative, with fond anxiety, to extend its cares beyond the grave, retired with the reverend priest to his own apartment.

"Oh, my friend," said the afflicted parent, "you received my child into the bosom of our holy church; you heard her first innocent confession, you sanctified her fatal marriage vows, and how soon after did you offer up the prayers of my broken heart for the repose of her departed soul!"

"She was almost as much the child of my affections as of yours," replied the priest, greatly moved: "and how graciously did Heaven reward my endeavours to form her mind to the practice of every virtue! Never did a purer spirit inhabit a human form! Let us rejoice in this," continued he, his countenance beaming with the cheering hopes of devotion; "we have both hitherto offended by a grief that 'would not be comforted.' Shall we, standing on the brink of the grave, still presume to murmur? Let me exhort you to break through the accustomed indulgence of unavailing sorrow, that would vainly strive against the will of Heaven: you have always shunned consolation, seek it humbly and sincerely, and it will be sent from above!"

The old man sighed deeply, and made that devotional sign which marks the pious Catholic. His eyes were cast upwards, and his lips moved as if in prayer. Whilst the creature addressed his Creator, the holy minister of religion paused in reverential silence; but when the spontaneous supplication had ceased, he again addressed his friend. "I would fain impose a trial on you—a bitter one I confess; but could you accomplish it, you would hereafter feel as becomes a mortal sufferer. The solitude, the lugubrious forms of this day, nourish the grief it behoves you to struggle against. The presence of strangers is a fortunate circumstance, and will afford you an assistance your own domestic circle is incapable of. Return to society; receive your guests as if this were to-morrow and to-morrow will rise with a feeling of satisfaction, to which you have long been a stranger."

Though O'Sullivan afterwards pondered on these words till he almost believed them to have been an inspiration from Heaven, he at the moment vehemently asserted the impossibility of his making such an exertion. A considerable time elapsed, before the remonstrances of Father Dermoody could overcome his reluctance to wrestle with "this cherished woe, this loved despair;" but at last the advice of the friend, the admonitions of the pastor, prevailed; and Mr. O'Sullivan, accompanied by his reverend guide, appeared amongst his visitors, who were still assembled in the breakfast-room. On entering, he bowed profoundly to all, then seated himself in silence, with a mournful sternness that repelled every body from addressing him, farther than to manifest that respect, which was always involuntarily testified towards him. Miss Fitzcarril could scarcely have been more surprised, had she seen the apparition of Rose herself, than she was by the sight of her father on this morning; lifting up her hands and eyes, she whispered her astonishment to Father Dermoody, who requested her to abstain from exhibiting any further token of it. Some of the party continued their occupations, some their idleness, but no one spoke; and all, from time to time, anxiously looked towards the windows, to judge from the increasing gloom of the sky, how near the tempest it foreboded approached.

The aspect of nature was at that moment as dreary as O'Sullivan's heart. That stillness, which sometimes precedes the coming storm, reigned unbroken. Clouds of portentous blackness were slowly congregating, to dart the forked lightning; but not a leaf moved, not a bird flitted in the motionless air; and as the dark veil hung over the lake, its dormant waters gave but the idea of fearful profundity. The silence of night is awful, yet the soul confesses it the repose of nature; but when this dread torpor appals the joyous day, every animate and inanimate object seems fearfully resigned to await her dissolution. While the ear paused in expectation of the hollow thunder, and the eye half closed as it anticipated the vivid flash, a wild cry arose—"Good God! what's that?" was the general exclamation. It was the wail, with which the children of this mountain region deplored their dead. No softening gale lent it beauty; the winds that were wont to sport with the accents of human woe, wafting them to the mountain's rugged brow, or saddening the smiling valley at its foot, now slumbered in the slowly rolling clouds. Horrible and harsh the lamenting voice of hundreds smote the ear. Once it was reverberated from rocks as lifeless as the being it bemoaned, whilst the mourners and their sad burden were hidden from the view.

O'Sullivan started, and his eyes rested on the figure of Adelaide. As she had compassionately viewed his sorrowful countenance, memory had too faithfully depicted to her mind the anguish, which had always marked this eventful day to her father. The sudden doleful lamentation had completely overcome her spirits, and with her hands clasped in agony, torrents of tears were streaming down her cheeks, whilst, as the chilled blood recoiled to her heart, her dark hair threw a melancholy shade on her palid face. The impulse of humanity overcame the silence of sorrow; O'Sullivan instantly seized her hand, and as her eyes mournfully met his, exclaimed, "Desmond has told me all; you grieve for your father, I for my child. A desolate old man like me has little comfort to offer. But for her sake, whose living image you are, in my heart's core could I hide you from all trouble." Adelaide, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed aloud.

Mrs. O'Sullivan, inflamed by anger at her son, and by jealousy of the tenderness expressed in her brother-in-law's countenance for the lovely mourner, whose confiding attitudes seemed to repose her affliction on his solacing compassion, now whispered to Amelia, "This is too bad; that artful baggage has got him under her thumb too;—mayhap he may devize his fortin to her instead of Caroline, after all—I'll tell him what she is." So saying, passion accelerating her utterance and crimsoning her face, she addressed Mr. O'Sullivan with, "Sir, sir, that Miss that's putting a sham upon you is a wagabond; and if she doesn't look to her ways, I'll have her sent home by the alien act, as Meely bids me. She tells up about English relations; but in two years she's lived with me, she wouldn't never tell me who they were: she's an imposter, and vill make a cat's paw of you, as she did of your brother, and——" "Gad zooks, mother" interrupted Webberly, "what odds is it who's her relations; when she marries, her husband's family is all she has to look to." "Jacky! Jacky! you'll never come to no good—you're an undutiful son! I'll get her packed off to Germany as sure as——" "What's all this, madam?" said Mr. O'Sullivan, with a look of contemptuous displeasure, that produced instant silence: "I will stand in the place of my brother to this young lady, if she will honour me by committing herself to my protection. Your threats against the unoffending ward of your husband are shameful." "Sir," said Adelaide, commanding herself to composure, "the gratitude I feel is inexpressible! But on this day there is no impediment, to prevent my satisfying Mrs. O'Sullivan's desire to know my parentage; of this she is well aware. My father, madam," continued she, with grave steadiness, "Reginald Baron Wildenheim, was the youngest brother of the present Earl of Osselstone. Soon after my birth, he renounced his family name of Mordaunt, and adopted his German title." O'Sullivan essayed to speak in vain; his lip quivered, but no sound met the ear of man; and his half palsied hand trembled as it passed a sign of deepest import to the priest, who darting forward, exclaimed, "Your mother's name, young lady—speak, did she die at Hamburgh?" "Alas! yes, on the day I was born; her name was one which, honoured and lamented here, I trembled to pronounce—it was Rose!" The old man uttered an hysterical laugh, and clasping her in his arms, faltered out, "Her child then was saved!" "Produce your proofs!" exclaimed the priest; "by every sacred name I conjure you, produce your proofs!" Mrs. O'Sullivan, raging with passion, vociferated, "She is an impostor; an artful minx, come to cheat Caroline." The Miss Webberlys screamed in Adelaide's ear, "Produce your proofs if you dare!" Their brother, with equal fury, interfered on her behalf. Little Caroline clung crying to her knees, "They shan't hurt you, dear Adele, they shan't hurt you!" Whilst Theresa, with terror in her looks, went from one to the other, saying, "For God's sake have done; leave the room if you can't be quiet; Mr. O'Sullivan will never get over such a piece of work on this day, of all days in the year!" But Adelaide was unconscious of all; she had taken her grandfather's agitated laugh, his unintelligible words, for a wandering of reason, on hearing a name resembling his daughter's unexpectedly mentioned; and, horror-struck, had sunk lifeless in his arms. When he saw the paleness of death in her cold cheek and blanched lip, stamping on the floor, he exclaimed, "You have killed her! Unfeeling wretches, you have killed her!" Father Dermoody and Theresa hastily stepped forward to offer that assistance he was incapable of bestowing, and immediately removed her to a neighbouring apartment, excluding every body else.

It was long ere Adelaide revived. When consciousness returned, she found herself in a strange apartment. The gloom almost of midnight was around; the storm had burst, and was raging with awful fury; the thunder rolled tremendously above her head, and a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the countenance of one kneeling at her side, on which she saw despair—the despair of venerable age, depicted. With an involuntary shudder she averted her head, and raised both her hands, as if to save her from the terrific vision. "Father of mercy!" exclaimed O'Sullivan, "I lost my child, and lived—lived but to see hers shun me." "Oh, my God!" ejaculated the agonized girl, "have mercy on him!—poor old man! poor old man!" and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. When she recovered a little from the racking emotions which tortured her, she mournfully took his hand, and said, "I do not shun you; God knows to console yours would be a delightful solace to my own afflictions. But I implore you to pause before you cherish these delusive ideas; a few minutes will suffice to convince you of the fatal error you have fallen into." She then, in a whisper, entreated Miss Fitzcarril to procure her portfolio, as she feared to irritate Mr. O'Sullivan's mind, by leaving him herself. Theresa fulfilled her request, and then with true delicacy retired.