LETTER XXIX.

TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.

M-------- House.

It is all over--the spell is dissolved, and the vision forever vanished: yet my mind is not what it was, ere this transient dream of bliss “wrapt it in Elysium.” Then I neither suffered nor enjoyed: now--!

When I folded my letter to you, I descended to breakfast, but the priest did not appear, and the things were removed untouched. I ordered my horse to be got ready, and waited all the day in expectation of a message from the Prince, loitering, wandering, unsettled, and wretched, the hours dragged on; no message came: I fancied I was impatient to receive it, and to be gone; but the truth is, my dear friend, I was weak enough almost to rejoice at the detention. While I walked from room to room with a book in my hand, I saw no one but the servants, who looked full of mystery; save once, when, as I stood at the top of the corridor, I perceived Glorvina leave her father’s room; she held a handkerchief to her eyes, and passed on to her own apartment. Oh! why did I not fly and wipe away those tears, inquire their source, and end at once the torture of suspense? but I had not power to move. The dinner hour arrived; I was sum moned to the parlour; the priest met me at the table, shook me with unusual cordiality by the hand, and affectionately inquired after my health. He then became silent and thoughtful, and had the air of a man whose heart and office are at variance; who is deputed with a commission his feelings will not suffer him to execute. After a long pause, he spoke of the Prince’s illness, the uneasiness of his mind, the unpleasant state of his affairs, his attachment and partiality to me, and his ardent wish always to have it in his power to retain me with him; then paused again, and sighed, and again endeavoured to speak, but failed in the effort. I now perfectly understood the nature of his incoherent speech; my pride served as an interpreter between his feelings and my own, and I was determined to save his honest heart the pang of saying, “Go, you are no longer a welcome guest.”

I told him then in a few words, that it was my intention to have left the castle that morning for Bally--------, on my way to England; but that I waited for an opportunity of bidding farewell to the Prince: as that, however, seemed to be denied me, I begged that he (Father John) would have the goodness to say for me all------. Had my life depended on it, I could not articulate another word. The priest arose in evident emotion. I, too, not unagitated, left my seat: the good man took my hand, and pressed it affectionately to his heart, then turned aside, I believe, to conceal the moisture of his eyes; nor were mine dry, yet they seemed to burn in their sockets. The priest then put a paper in the hand he held, and again pressing it with ardour, hurried away. I trembled as I opened it; it was a letter from the Prince, containing a bank note, a plain ring which he constantly wore, and the following lines written with the trembling hand of infirmity or emotion:

“Young and interesting Englishman, farewell! Had I not known thee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me with a son.

“O’Melville,

“Prince of Inismore.”

I sunk, overcome in a chair. When I could sufficiently command myself, I wrote with my pencil on the cover of the Prince’s letter the following incoherent lines:

“You owe _me_ nothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and all that could _once_ render life desirable. With existence only will the recollection of your kindness be lost; yet though generously it was unworthily bestowed; for it was lavished on an _Impostor_. I am not what I seem: To become an inmate in your family, to awaken an interest in your estimation, I forfeited the dignity of truth, and stooped for the first time to the meanness of deception. Your money, therefore, I return, but your ring--that ring so often worn by you--worlds would not tempt me to part with.

“I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my heart! but since I have been your guest, _he_, the whole world was forgotten. The first tie of nature was dissolved; and from your hands I seemed to have received a new existence. Best and most generous of men, be this recollection present to your heart: Should some incident as yet unforeseen discover to you who and what I am, remember this--and then forgive him, who, with the profoundest sense of your goodness, bids you a last farewell.”

When I had finished these lines written with an emotion that almost rendered them illegible, I rung the bell and inquired (from the servant who answered) for the priest: he said he was shut up in the Prince’s room.

“Alone, with the Prince?” said I.

“No,” he returned, “for he had seen the lady Glorvina enter at the same time with Father John.” I did not wish to trust the servant with this open billet, I did not wish the Prince to get it till I was gone: in a word, though I was resolved to leave the castle that evening, yet I did not wish to go, till, for the last time, I had seen Glorvina.

I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. “Suffer me to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore forever.” As I was putting the billet into the man s hand, the stable-boy passed the window; I threw up the sash and ordered him to lead round my horse. All this was done with the agitation of mind which a criminal feels who hurries on his execution, to terminate the horrors of suspense.

I continued walking up and down the room in such agony of feeling, that a cold dew, colder than ice, hung upon my aching brow. I heard a footstep approach--I became motionless; the door opened, and the priest appeared, leading in Glorvina. God of Heaven! The priest supported her on his arm, the veil was drawn over her eyes; I could not advance to meet them, I stood spellbound,--they both approached; I had not the power to raise my eyes. “You sent for me,” said the priest, in a faltering accent. I presented him my letter for the Prince; suffocation choked my utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom, and taking my hand, said, “You must not think of leaving this evening; the Prince will not hear of it.” While he spoke my horse passed the window; I summoned up those spirits my pride, my wounded pride, retained in its service. “It is necessary I should depart immediately,” said I, “and the sultriness of the weather renders the evening preferable.” I abruptly paused--I could not finish the sentence, simple as it was.

“Then,” said the priest, “_any_ evening will do as well as this.” But Glorvina spoke not; and I answered with vehemence, that I should have been off long since: and my determination is now fixed.

“If you are thus _positive_,” said the priest, surprised by a manner so unusual, “your friend, your pupil here, who came to second her father’s request, must change her solicitations to a last farewell.”

Glorvina’s head reposed on his shoulder; her face was enveloped in her veil; he looked on her with tenderness and compassion, and I repeated, a “last farewell!” Glorvina, you will at least then say, “_Farewell_.” The veil fell from her face. God of Heaven, what a countenance! In the universe I saw nothing but Glorvina; such as I had once believed her, my own, my loving and beloved Glorvina, my tender friend, and impassioned mistress. I fell at her feet; I seized her hands and pressed them to my burning lips. I heard her stifled sobs; her tears of soft compassion fell upon my cheek; I thought them tears of love, and drew her to my breast; but the priest held her in one arm, while with the other he endeavoured to raise me, exclaiming in violent emotion, “O God, I should have foreseen this! I, I alone am to blame. Excellent and unfortunate young man, dearly beloved child!” and at the same moment he pressed us both to his paternal bosom. The heart of Glorvina throbbed to mine, our tears flowed together, our sighs mingled. The priest sobbed over us like a child. It was a blissful agony; but it was insupportable.

Then to have died would have been most blessed The priest dispelled the transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He stifled the voice of nature and pity in his breast. His air was sternly virtuous--“Go,” said he, but he spoke in vain. I still clung to the drapery of Glorvina’s robe; he forced me from her, and she sunk on a couch. “I now,” he added, “behold the fatal error to which I have been an unconscious accessary. Thank God, it is retrievable; go, amiable, but imprudent young man; it is honour, it is virtue commands your departure.”

While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall. “Stay,” said I, in a faint voice, “let me but speak to her.”

“It is in vain,” replied the inexorable priest, “for she can _never_ be yours; then spare _her_, spare _yourself_.”

“Never!” I exclaimed.

“Never,” he firmly replied.

I burst from his grasp and flew to Glorvina. I snatched her to my breast and wildly cried, “Glorvina, is this then a last farewell?” She answered not, but her silence was eloquent. “Then,” said I, pressing her more closely to my heart, “_farewell forever!_”

IN CONTINUATION.

I mounted the horse that waited for me at the door, and galloped off; but with the darkness of the night I returned, and all night I wandered about the environs of Inismore: to the last I watched the light of Glorvina’s window. When it was extinguished, it seemed as though I parted from her again. A gray dawn was already breaking to the mists of obscurity. Some poor peasants were already going to the labours of the day. It was requisite I should go. Yet when I ascended the mountain of Inismore I involuntarily turned, and beheld those dear ruins which I had first entered under the influence of such powerful, such prophetic emotion. What a train of recollections rushed on my mind, what a climax did they form! I turned away my eyes, sick, _sick_ at _heart_, and pursued my solitary journey. Within twelve miles of M-------- house, as I reached an eminence, I again paused to look back, and caught a last view of the mountain of Inismore. It seemed to float like a vapour on the horizon. I took a last farewell of this almost loved mountain. Once it had risen on my gaze like the pharos to my haven of enjoyment; for never, until this sad moment, had I beheld it but with transport.

On my arrival here I found a letter from my father, simply stating that by the time it reached me he would probably be on his way to Ireland, accompanied by my intended bride, and her father, concluding thus: “In beholding you honourably and happily established, thus secure in a liberal, a noble independence, the throb of incessant solicitude you have hitherto awakened will at last be _stilled_, and your prudent compliance in this instance will bury in eternal oblivion the sufferings, the anxieties which, with all your native virtue and native talent, your imprudence has hitherto caused to the heart of an affectionate and indulgent father.”

This letter, which even a few days back would have driven me to distraction, I now read with the apathy of a stoic. It is to me a matter of indifference how I am disposed of. I have no wish, no will of my own.

To the return of that mortal torpor from which a late fatally cherished sentiment had roused me, is now added the pang of my life’s severest disappointment, like the dying wretch who is only roused from total insensibility, by the quivering pains which, at intervals of fluttering life, shoot through his languid frame.

IN CONTINUATION.

It is two days since I began this letter, yet I am still here; I have not power to move, though I know not what secret spell detains me. But whither shall I go, and to what purpose? the tie which once bound me to physical and moral good, to virtue and felicity, is broken, for ever broken. My mind is changed, dreadfully changed within these few days. I am ill too, a burning fever preys upon the very springs of life; all around me is solitary and desolate. Sometimes my brain seems on fire, and hideous phantoms float before my eyes; either my senses are disordered by indisposition, or the hand of heaven presses heavily on me. My blood rolls in torrents through my veins. Sometimes I think it _should_, it _must_ have vent. I feel it is in vain to think that I shall ever be fit for the discharge of any duty in this life. I shall hold a place in the creation to which I am a dishonour. I shall become a burthen to the few who are obliged to feel an interest in my welfare.

It is the duty of every one to do that which his situation requires, to act up to the measure of judgment bestowed on him by Providence. Should I continue to drag on this load of life, it would be for its wretched remnant a mere animal existence. A moral death! What! I become again like the plant I tread under my feet; endued with a vegetative existence, but destitute of all sensation of all feeling. I who have tasted heaven’s own bliss; who have known, oh God! that even the recollection, the simple recollection should diffuse through my chilled heart, through my whole languid frame such cheering renovating ardour.

I have gone over calmly, deliberately gone over every circumstance connected with the recent dream of my life. It is evident that the object of my heart’s first election is that of her father’s choice. Her passion for me, for I swear most solemnly she loved me: Oh, in that I could not be deceived; every look, every word betrayed it; her passion for me was a paroxysm. Her tender, her impassioned nature required some object to receive the glowing ebullitions of its affectionate feelings; and in the absence of another, in that unrestrained intimacy by which we were so closely associated; in that sympathy of pursuit which existed between us, they were lavished on me. I was the substituted toy of the moment. And shall I then sink beneath a woman’s whim, a woman’s infidelity, unfaithful to another as to me? I who, from my early days, have suffered by her arts and my own credulity? But what were all my sufferings to this? A drop of water to “the multitudinous ocean.” Yet in the moment of a last farewell she wept so bitterly! tears of pity! Pitied and deceived!

I am resolved I will offer myself an expiatory sacrifice on the altar of parental wrongs. The father whom I have deceived and injured shall be retributed. This moment I have received a letter from him, the most affectionate and tender; he is arrived in Dublin, and with him Mr. D------, and his daughter! It is well! If he requires it the moment of our meeting shall be that of my immolation. Some act of desperation would _be_ now most consonant to my soul!

Adieu.

H. M.