He endeavoured to conjure up something like the feelings which would, at another time, have been congenial to his situation, but his heart had no room for these vagaries of imagination.The recollection of Miss Wardour, determined not to acknowledge him when compelled to endure his society, and evincing her purpose to escape from it, would have alone occupied his imagination exclusively.But with this were united recollections more agitating if less painful,--her hair-breadth escape--the fortunate assistance which he had been able to render her--Yet what was his requital? She left the cliff while his fate was yet doubtful --while it was uncertain whether her preserver had not lost the life which he had exposed for her so freely.Surely gratitude, at least, called for some little interest in his fate--But no--she could not be selfish or unjust--it was no part of her nature.
She only desired to shut the door against hope, and, even in compassion to him, to extinguish a passion which she could never return.
But this lover-like mode of reasoning was not likely to reconcile him to his fate, since the more amiable his imagination presented Miss Wardour, the more inconsolable he felt he should be rendered by the extinction of his hopes.He was, indeed, conscious of possessing the power of removing her prejudices on some points;but, even in extremity, he determined to keep the original determination which he had formed, of ascertaining that she desired an explanation, ere he intruded one upon her.And, turn the matter as he would, he could not regard his suit as desperate.
There was something of embarrassment as well as of grave surprise in her look when Oldbuck presented him--and, perhaps, upon second thoughts, the one was assumed to cover the other.
He would not relinquish a pursuit which had already cost him such pains.Plans, suiting the romantic temper of the brain that entertained them, chased each other through his head, thick and irregular as the motes of the sun-beam, and, long after he had laid himself to rest, continued to prevent the repose which he greatly needed.Then, wearied by the uncertainty and difficulties with which each scheme appeared to be attended, he bent up his mind to the strong effort of shaking off his love, ``like dew-drops from the lion's mane,'' and resuming those studies and that career of life which his unrequited affection had so long and so fruitlessly interrupted.In this last resolution he endeavoured to fortify himself by every argument which pride, as well as reason, could suggest.``She shall not suppose,'' he said, ``that, presuming on an accidental service to her or to her father, I am desirous to intrude myself upon that notice, to which, personally, she considered me as having no title.I will see her no more.
I will return to the land which, if it affords none fairer, has at least many as fair, and less haughty than Miss Wardour.Tomorrow I will bid adieu to these northern shores, and to her who is as cold and relentless as her climate.'' When he had for some time brooded over this sturdy resolution, exhausted nature at length gave way, and, despite of wrath, doubt, and anxiety, he sank into slumber.
It is seldom that sleep, after such violent agitation, is either sound or refreshing.Lovel's was disturbed by a thousand baseless and confused visions.He was a bird--he was a fish--or he flew like the one, and swam like the other,--qualities which would have been very essential to his safety a few hours before.
Then Miss Wardour was a syren, or a bird of Paradise; her father a triton, or a sea-gull; and Oldbuck alternately a porpoise and a cormorant.These agreeable imaginations were varied by all the usual vagaries of a feverish dream;--the air refused to bear the visionary, the water seemed to burn him--the rocks felt like down pillows as he was dashed against them--whatever he undertook, failed in some strange and unexpected manner--and whatever attracted his attention, underwent, as he attempted to investigate it, some wild and wonderful metamorphosis, while his mind continued all the while in some degree conscious of the delusion, from which it in vain struggled to free itself by awaking;--feverish symptoms all, with which those who are haunted by the night-hag, whom the learned call Ephialtes, are but too well acquainted.At length these crude phantasmata arranged themselves into something more regular, if indeed the imagination of Lovel, after he awoke (for it was by no means the faculty in which his mind was least rich), did not gradually, insensibly, and unintentionally, arrange in better order the scene of which his sleep presented, it may be, a less distinct outline.Or it is possible that his feverish agitation may have assisted him in forming the vision.
Leaving this discussion to the learned, we will say, that after a succession of wild images, such as we have above described, our hero, for such we must acknowledge him, so far regained a consciousness of locality as to remember where he was, and the whole furniture of the Green Chamber was depicted to his slumbering eye.And here, once more, let me protest, that if there should be so much old-fashioned faith left among this shrewd and sceptical generation, as to suppose that what follows was an impression conveyed rather by the eye than by the imagination, I do not impugn their doctrine.He was, then, or imagined himself, broad awake in the Green Chamber, gazing upon the flickering and occasional flame which the unconsumed remnants of the faggots sent forth, as, one by one, they fell down upon the red embers, into which the principal part of the boughs to which they belonged had crumbled away.
