LETTER XXII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
This creature is deep in the metaphysics of love. She is perpetuallyawakening ardour by restraint, and stealing enjoyment from privation.She still persists in bringing the priest with her to the drawing-desk;but it is evident she does not the less enjoy that casual absencewhich leaves us sometimes alone; and I am now become such an epicurein sentiment, that I scarcely regret the restraint the presence of thepriest imposes; since it gives a keener zest to the transient minutesof felicity his absence bestows--even though they are enjoyed in silentconfusion. For nothing can be more seducing than her looks, nothing canbe more dignified than her manners. If, when we are alone, I even offerto take her hand, she grows pale, and shrinks from my touch. Yet Iregret not that careless confidence which once prompted the innocentrequest that I would guide her hand to draw a perpendicular line.
*****
“Solitude (says the Spectator) with the person beloved, even to awoman’s mind, has a pleasure beyond all the pomp and splendour in theworld.”
O! how my heart subscribes to a sentiment I have so often laughed at,when my ideas of pleasure were very different from what they are atpresent. I cannot persuade myself that three weeks have elapsed sincemy return hither; and still less am I willing to believe that it isnecessary I should return to M-------- house. In short, the rocks whichembosom the peninsula of Inis-more bound all my hopes, all my wishes;and my desires, like the _radii of a circle_, all point towards one andthe same centre. This creature grows on me with boundless influence;her originality, her genius, her sensibility, her youth, and person!In short, her united charms in this profound solitude thus closelyassociated, is a species of witchcraft.
*****
It was indispensibly necessary I should return to M------house, as myfather’s visit to Ireland is drawing near; and it was requisite Ishould receive and answer his letters. At last, therefore, I summoned upresolution to plead my former excuses to the Prince for my absence; whoinsisted on my immediate return--which I promised should be in a day ortwo--while the eyes of Glorvina echoed her father’s commands, and minelooked implicit obedience. With what different emotions I now leftInismore, to those which accompanied my last departure! My feelings werethen unknown to myself--now I am perfectly aware of their nature.
I found M-------- house, as usual, cold, comfortless, and desolate--witha few wretched-looking peasants working languidly about the grounds. Inshort, everything breathed the deserted mansion of an _absentee_.
The evening of my arrival I answered my father’s letters--one from ourpleasant but libertine friend D------n,--read over yours threetimes--went to bed--dreamed of Glorvina--and set off for Inismore thenext morning. I rode so hard that I reached the castle about that hourwhich we usually devoted to the exertions of the pencil. I flew at onceto that vast and gloomy room which her presence alone cheers andillumines. Her drawing-desk lay open; she seemed but just to have risenfrom the chair placed before it; and her work-basket hung on its back.
Even this well-known little work-basket is to me an object of interest.I kissed the muslin it contained; and, in raising it, perceived a smallbook splendidly bound and gilt. I took it up, and read on its cover,marked in letters of gold, “_Brevaire du Sentiment_.”
Impelled by the curiosity which this title excited, I opened it--andfound beneath its first two leaves several faded snowdrops _stained withblood_. Under them was written in Glorvina’s hand,
“Prone to the earth he bowed our pallid flowers--
And caught the drops divine, the purple dyes
Tinging the lustre of our native hues.”
A little lower in the page was traced, “Culled from the spot where hefell--April the 1st, 17--
Oh! how quickly my bounding heart told me who was that _he_, whose vitaldrops had stained these _treasured_ blossoms, thus “tinging the lustreof their native hues.” While the sweetest association of ideas convincedme that these were the identical flowers which Glorvina had hallowedwith a tear as she watched by the couch of him with whose blood theywere polluted.
While I pressed this sweet testimony of a pure and lively tenderness tomy lips, she entered. At sight of _me_, pleasurable surprise investedevery feature; and the most innocent joy lit up her countenance, as shesprang forward and offered me her hand. While I carried it eagerly tomy lips, I pointed to the snowdrops. Glorvina, with the hand which wasdisengaged, covered her blushing face, and would have fled. But the lookwhich preceded this natural motion discovered the wounded feelings of atender but proud heart. I felt the indelicacy of my conduct, and, stillclasping her struggling hand, exclaimed--
“Forgive, forgive the vain triumph of a being intoxicated by yourpity
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