The Purcell Papers, vol 2 | Page 7

The provisions of his will were curious, and when I had sufficiently
come to myself to listen to or comprehend them, surprised me not a
little: all his vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of my body,
for ever; and, in default of such heirs, it was to go after my death to my
uncle, Sir Arthur, without any entail.
At the same time, the will appointed him my guardian, desiring that I
might be received within his house, and reside with his family, and
under his care, during the term of my minority; and in consideration of

the increased expense consequent upon such an arrangement, a
handsome annuity was allotted to him during the term of my proposed
residence.
The object of this last provision I at once understood: my father desired,
by making it the direct, apparent interest of Sir Arthur that I should die
without issue, while at the same time he placed me wholly in his power,
to prove to the world how great and unshaken was his confidence in his
brother's innocence and honour, and also to afford him an opportunity
of showing that this mark of confidence was not unworthily bestowed.
It was a strange, perhaps an idle scheme; but as I had been always
brought up in the habit of considering my uncle as a deeply-injured
man, and had been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard
him as the very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasiness respecting
the arrangement than that likely to result to a timid girl, of secluded
habits, from the immediate prospect of taking up her abode for the first
time in her life among total strangers. Previous to leaving my home,
which I felt I should do with a heavy heart, I re- ceived a most tender
and affectionate letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything could do
so, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes familiar and dear
from my earliest childhood, and in some degree to reconcile me to the
measure.
It was during a fine autumn that I approached the old domain of
Carrickleigh. I shall not soon forget the impression of sadness and of
gloom which all that I saw produced upon my mind; the sunbeams
were falling with a rich and melancholy tint upon the fine old trees,
which stood in lordly groups, casting their long, sweeping shadows
over rock and sward. There was an air of neglect and decay about the
spot, which amounted almost to desolation; the symptoms of this
increased in number as we approached the building itself, near which
the ground had been originally more artificially and carefully cultivated
than elsewhere, and whose neglect consequently more immediately and
strikingly betrayed itself.
As we proceeded, the road wound near the beds of what had been
formally two fish-ponds, which were now nothing more than stagnant
swamps, overgrown with rank weeds, and here and there encroached
upon by the straggling underwood; the avenue itself was much broken,
and in many places the stones were almost concealed by grass and

nettles; the loose stone walls which had here and there intersected the
broad park were, in many places, broken down, so as no longer to
answer their original purpose as fences; piers were now and then to be
seen, but the gates were gone; and, to add to the general air of
dilapidation, some huge trunks were lying scattered through the
venerable old trees, either the work of the winter storms, or perhaps the
victims of some extensive but desultory scheme of denudation, which
the projector had not capital or perseverance to carry into full effect.
After the carriage had travelled a mile of this avenue, we reached the
summit of rather an abrupt eminence, one of the many which added to
the picturesqueness, if not to the convenience of this rude passage.
From the top of this ridge the grey walls of Carrickleigh were visible,
rising at a small distance in front, and darkened by the hoary wood
which crowded around them. It was a quadrangular building of
considerable extent, and the front which lay towards us, and in which
the great entrance was placed, bore unequivocal marks of antiquity; the
time-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the ruinous and deserted
appearance of the whole place, and the associations which connected it
with a dark page in the history of my family, combined to depress
spirits already predisposed for the reception of sombre and dejecting
impressions.
When the carriage drew up in the grass- grown court yard before the
hall-door, two lazy-looking men, whose appearance well accorded with
that of the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the obstreperous
barking of a great chained dog, ran out from some half-ruinous
out-houses, and