When the balloon of the duke approached the habitation of Sir Ambrose,
its occupiers perceived the worthy baronet walking with hasty strides
towards the mount of the telegraph, which commanded an extensive view
of the surrounding country, followed by Edric and Dr. Entwerfen, who
appeared vainly endeavouring to persuade him to relax a speed so little
suited to his advanced years.
"Talk not to me of going slowly, when I expect news of my darling
Edmund!" exclaimed Sir Ambrose, continuing his rapid pace--his
heart beating with paternal pride, and his countenance beaming with
exultation.
"I am also anxious to hear of my brother," said Edric, "but after the
information we have already received by the telegraphic dispatch, it
appears to me that we have little more to learn of importance."
"Edric, you are not a father, and you can have no idea of a father's
anxiety," replied Sir Ambrose, hurrying on to the mount, as though
he hoped the rapidity of his motion would afford some relief to the
impatience of his mind; whilst the party of the duke, seeing the point
to which he was hastening, opened the valves of their balloon, and made
preparations to descend upon the same spot.
The duke and Sir Ambrose were always glad to meet, but as the present
occasion was one of more than ordinary interest, so they now greeted
each other with more than ordinary pleasure. The duke had always
been warmly attached to Edmund, and his voice actually trembled with
agitation as he exclaimed:--
"Well, my old friend, you see your brave boy is determined to keep us
alive still. Our blood would stagnate in our veins, if he did not give
us a fillip now and then to rouse us. But what does the young rogue say
of himself? I hope he's not wounded?"
"He never mentions himself," replied Sir Ambrose, tears glistening
in his eyes, as he pressed the hand of his friend warmly in his own;
"Edmund loves his country too devotedly to think of either peril or
reward in her service."
"But he shall have a reward!" cried the duke, laughing; "ay and a
fitting one too! Eh, Elvira, what say you?"
Elvira blushed, smiled, and looked down, as young ladies generally do
upon such occasions; whilst Sir Ambrose, who had now reached the summit
of the mount, was too eagerly looking round in every direction to hear
his friend's remark.
In those days, the ancient method of conveying the post having
been found much too slow for so enlightened a people, an ingenious
scheme had been devised, by which the letters were put into balls
and discharged by steam-cannon, from place to place; every town and
district having a piece of _toile metallique_, or woven wire, suspended
in the air, so as to form a kind of net to arrest the progress of the
ball, and being provided with a cannon to send it off again, when the
letters belonging to that neighbourhood should have been extracted:
whilst, to prevent accidents, the mail-post letter-balls were always
preceded by one of a similar description, made of thin wood, with a
hole in its side, which, collecting the wind as it passed along, made a
kind of whizzing noise, to admonish people to keep out of the way.
The mount on which Sir Ambrose now stood, commanded an extensive view,
and the scene it presented was beautiful in the extreme. On one side,
innumerable grass fields, richly wooded, and only divided from each
other by invisible iron fences, appeared like one vast park; whilst, on
the other, the waving corn, its full heads beginning to darken in the
sun, gave a rich glowing tint to the landscape. But Sir Ambrose thought
not of the prospect, he did not even see the murmuring brooks and
shady groves, the smiling vales and swelling hills, that constituted
its beauty; no, his attention was wholly occupied by a small black
spot he had just discovered on the edge of the horizon. In breathless
anxiety, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, he bent eagerly
forwards, gazing on this small and at first almost imperceptible speck.
It gradually grew larger and larger--it rapidly approached! and in a
few seconds a slight noise buzzed through the air, as the long-expected
balls whizzed past him.
Sir Ambrose's agitation was excessive; with trembling limbs and livid
lips, he hurried to the nearest station, which luckily was close at
hand, and round which several of his household were assembled, in their
impatience to hear the news. Sir Ambrose could not speak, but the
person whose province it was to sort the letters guessed his errand,
and opening the bag held forth the ardently expected treasure. Gasping
for breath, Sir Ambrose eagerly attempted to take it, but his hands
were unequal to the task, the violence of his emotion overpowered him,
and after a short, but fruitless struggle, he fell senseless on the
ground.
The confusion produced by this unexpected incident, was indescribable.
The old duke walked up and down, wringing his hands, and exclaiming,
"What shall we do? What will become of us?" whilst the rest of the
party endeavoured to give assistance to Sir Ambrose.
"Parental affection," said Davis, who had an unfortunate propensity for
making long speeches precisely at the moment when nobody was likely to
attend to him, "Parental affection has been universally allowed by all
writers, both ancient and modern, to be one of the strongest passions
of the soul, and the most exalted instances might be produced of the
surprising energy of this universal sentiment."
"For Heaven's sake help me to raise my father," cried Edric: "Give him
air, or he will die!"
"Patience," continued Davis, "is necessary in all things, and is
perhaps one of the most useful and estimable qualities of life. It
enables us to bear, without shrinking, the bitterest evils that can
assail us. Without patience, philosophy would never have made those
wonderful discoveries that subjugate nature to our yoke."
"Fetch me some water," exclaimed Edric, "or he will expire before your
eyes."
"It appears to me," said a labourer, who had been mending a steam
digging-machine in a neighbouring field, and who now stood leaning upon
his work, and looking on gravely at all that passed, without attempting
to offer the least assistance;--"It appears to me that it would be
highly improper to administer the aqueous fluid in its natural state of
frigidity, under the existing circumstances. The present suspension of
animation under which Sir Ambrose labours, is evidently occasioned by
want of circulation. Now, as it is the property of hot liquors, rather
than cold ones, to supply the stimulant necessary for the reproduction
of circulation, I opine that hot water would answer the purpose better
than cold."
In the mean time Father Morris had brought some water from a
neighbouring fountain, and throwing it on the patient's face, Sir
Ambrose opened his eyes: for some moments he stared wildly around him,
but, as soon as he began to recollect what had passed, he implored
Father Morris to give him his ardently desired letter.
"You are not yet equal to reading it," said Father Morris
compassionately; "I fear the exertion will be too much for you."
"Oh give it me! give it me," exclaimed the poor old man; "if a spark of
mercy remain in your soul, do not keep me in this agony!"
It was impossible to resist the tone of real anguish that accompanied
these words, as Father Morris put the letter into his hands.--Sir
Ambrose took it eagerly; though he trembled so, that he could scarcely
break the seal. At last, he tore it open and gazed at its contents, but
he could not read a word; he dashed away his tears, and rubbed his eyes
impatiently--all was in vain--the writing was still illegible--"Read!
read!" cried he, in a voice trembling with agitation, "For Heaven's
sake, read!--will no one have pity on me?"
Father Morris took the letter, and read it aloud, whilst Sir Ambrose
sate--his eyes raised to Heaven, his hands clasped together, and
the tears rolling down his aged cheeks, listening to his words, and
drinking in every syllable. After giving a circumstantial account of
the battle, and assuring his father that he had not been wounded,
Edmund proceeded thus. "The Queen has written me a letter of
approbation in her own hand, and has been graciously pleased to signify
her intention of honouring me with a triumphal entry into London;
she has likewise conferred upon me letters of nobility. The goodness
of my sovereign makes a deep impression upon my breast; but for the
rest, I assure you that neither the applauses of the multitude, nor
the privilege of writing Lord before my name, can afford a moment's
satisfaction to a heart that pants only for the pleasure of seeing
again those most dear to it; nor shall I enjoy my triumph unless those
I love be present to give it zest."
"I congratulate you, my dear patron!" exclaimed Father Morris, as soon
as he had finished; "I congratulate you from my inmost soul!"
"Go to his triumph!" exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands in
ecstasy; "Yes, yes, that we will; won't we, my old friend? God bless
him! I'm glad he is not hurt, though. And so, you see, in spite of
all his glory, he can't be happy without us. How prettily he says
that!--'Not all the approbation of my sovereign, the praises of the
people'--nor--nor--what is it? I don't remember the exact words, but
I know the sense was, that he couldn't be happy without us, and, God
bless him! I'm sure I'm as happy as he can be, at the thought of seeing
him."
Sir Ambrose could not reply, but the tears ran down his aged cheeks
like rain, as his heart breathed a silent offering of thanksgiving to
the Almighty Being who had thus bestowed victory upon his son; and his
lips murmured some inarticulate sounds of transport; whilst Elvira and
Rosabella mingled their tears with his, for joy often becomes painful
and seeks for a relief like grief.
The party now slowly returned to the mansion of Sir Ambrose, so
completely occupied in discussing Edmund's letter, as to be totally
unaware that Edric had not accompanied them; yet such was the case. The
youthful philosopher's heart had swelled almost to bursting, as he had
listened to the reading of his brother's letter, and he now rushed into
a thick wood, shelving down to a romantic stream, which formed part of
the pleasure-grounds of Sir Ambrose.
Almost without knowing where he was going, Edric plunged amongst the
trees, and threw himself upon a grassy bank under their shade, upon
the border of the rivulet. The gentle murmuring of the water, gave a
delightful sense of refreshing coolness, particularly agreeable from
the burning heat of the day; and Edric lay, his eyes fixed upon the
sparkling waves as they danced in the sunbeams, with both his hands
pressed firmly upon his throbbing temples, endeavouring in vain to
analyze the new and strange emotions that struggled for mastery in his
bosom. By degrees he became more calm; and though his heart still beat
with feelings he could not quite explain, he felt soothed by the softly
gliding streamlet; and the stormy passions of his breast seemed lulled
to tranquillity as one hand fell carelessly down by his side, and the
other merely supported the head it no longer constrained.
It was not envy that occasioned Edric's emotions; but shame and
indignation burnt in his bosom when he recollected that he was wasting
his days in comparative obscurity, whilst his brother, only a few years
older than himself, was ennobling the name bequeathed to him by his
ancestors.
"And cannot I also become famous?" thought he, his heart swelling with
emulation. "Though I abhor the profession of a soldier, are not other
ways open to me of attaining eminence? Why should I not exert myself?
I will remain in indolence no longer. I, too, will prove myself worthy
of my forefathers, and show the world that the exalted blood of the
Montagus has not degenerated in my veins!" His eyes sparkled with the
thought, and he half raised himself, as though eager to put it into
immediate execution. A moment's reflection, however, restored him to
himself, and he could not help smiling at his own folly. "And yet I
call myself a philosopher," thought he: "Alas! alas! how little do we
know ourselves; and after all, the pursuit of knowledge is the only
employment worthy of a man of sense: the transitory applause of the
multitude, it is beneath him to accept. Nature is the goddess I adore;
and if it should be granted to me to explore her secrets, I shall be
the happiest of mankind. But why should I pass my life in anxious
cravings never destined to be realized? The events of to-day have only
proved yet more clearly the little value my society is of to my father.
Were I absent, I should soon be forgotten. Why then should I not travel
and satisfy these restless wishes that gnaw at my heart and poison
every pleasure? I was not born to rest contented with the dull routine
of domestic life, and I detest hypocrisy: I will seek my father; and,
explaining my real sentiments, break off this hated marriage and set
off for Egypt immediately."
Satisfied with this resolution, Edric rose and walked hastily
towards his father's mansion, with all that inward vigour which the
consciousness of having made up one's mind is certain to bestow; and
which, perhaps, is one of the most agreeable sensations that can be
experienced by the human mind, as that of suspense or indecision is
undoubtedly one of the most unpleasant.
Edric found his father and the duke busily engaged in consulting upon
their intended journey, which was an event in both their lives; for
as, since the universal adoption of balloons, journeys were performed
without either trouble or expense, the rich had lost all inducement to
undertake them, and it was rare for a man of rank to quit his family
mansion unless he had some post at court.
"I have a palace in London," said the duke, "which I hope you will make
your home; though it has been so long unused that I doubt whether it
will be fit for your reception."
"Do not distress yourself about making arrangements for my family,"
replied Sir Ambrose; "for you know I have a brother living in London,
and though we have not seen each other for years, I think upon such an
occasion as this I ought to forget all animosity, and visit him, if he
will receive me."
"True," rejoined the duke; "I never thought of that: but you are quite
right. Though he did make a foolish marriage, the ties of blood are too
strong to be easily shaken off, and this is an excellent opportunity
for a reconciliation."
"Another thing also weighs with me," continued Sir Ambrose: "you know
that though I was so much hurt at his marriage, I was in some measure
the cause of it."
"You the cause of it!" exclaimed the duke, in excessive surprise.
"You know," resumed Sir Ambrose, "my brother was always a bookworm;
and the last time I visited him, I found him so uncomfortable, and his
domestic affairs so dreadfully neglected, that I advised him to get an
active managing woman to act as housekeeper. He did so, and in twelve
months made her--Mrs. Montagu."
"I always thought your brother was too learned to know any thing
useful, and too clever to be able to take care of himself; but I own I
never suspected him of being such a fool as to marry."
"Perhaps I was a greater one than himself in resenting his conduct, for
I believe they get on very well. Mrs. Montagu does not want sense."
"I do not doubt her abilities, or that she was extremely well fitted
for her original station; but very different qualities are required
in the wife of Mr. Montagu from those which were suited to his
housekeeper."
"I know it; and also that there is perhaps nothing more difficult
than for a person in her situation to preserve the medium between
affectation and vulgarity. However, I am told that though Mrs.
Montagu cannot quite divest herself of the pedantry she acquired at a
charity-school in her youth; and though she still talks as learnedly
as if she had never ventured beyond the precincts of the kitchen; yet,
that she makes my brother a good wife, and they say her daughter Clara
is a charming girl."
"I can imagine nothing good springing from such a source."
"Prejudice! my dear duke, sheer prejudice!"
"Well, well, I will say no more about it; for, as you justly say, if
Mrs. Montagu makes your brother a good wife, and he is happy with her,
I don't see any right any body else has to trouble himself about the
matter: and so, as I don't like quarrels in families, I think you are
quite right in wishing to see your brother. However, if they do not
make you comfortable, I hope you'll remember you have another friend,
and so we'll now wish you good day: come, girls!"
And the old duke trotted off, followed by his fair companions. Edric's
heart throbbed violently when he found himself alone with his father;
the moment was arrived he had been so ardently wishing for, and yet
he was silent. He had scarcely had patience to wait the end of his
father's conference with the duke; and whilst it had lasted, he had
been arranging and re-arranging a thousand times in his mind, the
phrases he meant to make use of; yet now they seemed to have all
vanished from his memory, and he stood gazing through the open window,
his mind feeling a perfect chaos, and without being able to recollect
one single word of what he had determined to say. Sir Ambrose, in the
mean time, felt perfectly happy, and in the buoyancy of his spirits
tapped his son upon the shoulder.
"What all amort! Sir Knight of the Woeful Countenance," said he; "Come,
come! I will have no gloomy looks to-day. But, heyday! what is the
matter with you, Edric? You don't smile--are you unhappy? You look as
if you had something upon your mind."
"I have something upon my mind, my dear father," said Edric, solemnly;
"and something that I wish to communicate to you." He stopped when
he had said this, but Sir Ambrose did not reply, and, for some
minutes, neither spoke. At length, Edric broke the pause, which
had been one of perfect agony to him, and, speaking very fast, he
exclaimed, "Yet I don't know why I should hesitate. It is that I do
not love Rosabella--that I never can marry her--that I should be
entirely miserable even to think of it--and, that this is my fixed and
unalterable determination."
"Heyday!" cried Sir Ambrose; "what is all this? Not marry Rosabella!"
"Never; no tortures should induce me! I am convinced she would make
me wretched," continued Edric, hurrying through what he meant to say.
"Our tempers don't assimilate. We should both be miserable. I should be
very sorry to cause either you or the duke a moment's uneasiness--very
sorry--I would die first! But to marry Rosabella would be worse than
dying a thousand deaths--we should be the most wretched of human
beings, and you would be unhappy at seeing me so."
"Mercy on me!" cried Sir Ambrose, heaving a deep sigh, and feeling
almost out of breath at the volubility of his son. "I thought you dumb
just now, but I see that you can use your tongue fast enough when
the subject pleases you. Not marry Rosabella! Is the boy mad? Is she
not young, beautiful, and highly accomplished? What would you have,
I wonder? You certainly must be out of your senses to refuse such a
woman; and one too, so superior to yourself, in rank and fortune."
"In fortune I allow her to be superior; but I think the mystery
attached to the name of her father, more than compensates for any
difference of rank."
"Don't talk about what you can't understand. Duke Edgar is dead, and
his faults should be buried with him; besides, it is hard the girl
should suffer for the sins of her father."
"What were those sins, my dear Sir? I have often heard them darkly
hinted at, as something almost too dreadful to mention; but I never
heard the particulars."
"Edric," said Sir Ambrose, solemnly, "if you have the least regard for
my feelings, or entertain any duty for me as a son, never again advert
to that subject. Circumstances there are relating to it, of a deep,
awful, and mysterious nature, with which I am well acquainted, but
which I have taken a solemn oath never to reveal. Never speak of them
again; the bare remembrance makes me shudder--oh! would to Heaven I
could forget them!"
"I am very sorry, Sir, that my question was such as to give you pain:
but rest assured that my curiosity shall never again annoy you."
"I am not angry with you, Edric. You could not know the feelings your
question would create in my bosom, and it was natural you should wish
to know something of the father of your intended wife. However, think
no more of him. Consider the present duke as your future father-in-law;
and if possible forget that such a person as Duke Edgar ever existed."
"You forget, Sir," said Edric, firmly but respectfully, "that I have
before declared my determination never to marry Rosabella."
"Nonsense!" rejoined his father, "you don't know what you are talking
about. The world would call me as mad as yourself if I were to let you
act so foolishly: besides, what would the duke say?"
"To speak candidly, Sir, that is what principally annoys me; for I
trust that your good sense and affectionate disposition will soon
enable _you_ to see the affair in its proper light."
"That is to say, you think I am an old fool, and that you can coax me
to any thing you please. But you shall find your error. You shall learn
I will not be coaxed; I will be obeyed. You shall marry Rosabella, or
you shall leave my house."
"My dear father!" said Edric, attempting to take Sir Ambrose's hand.
"Away, Sir!" cried his father, shaking him off, "obedience far
outweighs words. If I am your dear father, you will act in compliance
with my wishes; and if you do not, it is a mockery to call me 'dear.'"
"I cannot marry Rosabella."
"Was ever such obstinacy!--such folly! The world will think you
distracted."
"I care not for the world!" cried Edric, impatiently.
"Youth like!" returned his father. "It is very strange no one will
be contented to take experience at second-hand. They must buy it for
themselves, and sometimes pay very dear for it before they profit by
its lessons. You talk like a child, Edric: when you get a little older,
you will find practice and theory very different things. You say you
despise the world: but you are wrong, the world must not be despised;
nay more, it ought not to be even slighted. As long as you live in it,
you must conform to its opinions: it is ridiculous to think otherwise.
I don't like to hear people say they don't care for the world; the
world must be cared for; and when people pretend to scorn it, it is
generally because they are aware they have done something to make it
scorn them."
"But, my dear father! you would not wish me to sacrifice my conscience
to its dictates."
"And pray, Sir, what has your conscience to do with the matter in
question?"
"Should I not sacrifice it by marrying a woman I feel I could never
love? In my opinion, nothing can be more sacred than the marriage vow;
and with what feelings could I enter into this solemn engagement in
the presence of Almighty God, calling upon him to witness it, when I
knew my heart was at variance with my words? My soul would recoil with
horror at such blasphemy."
"You talk about your conscience, Edric,--but should you not rather say
your inclinations? The person of Rosabella does not please your fancy,
I suppose; and to gratify a capricious whim, you would destroy the
happiness of your father, and ruin your own prospects for ever."
"It is not of the person of Rosabella that I complain, my dear
father;--I allow her to be beautiful as a Venus, and that her talents
even exceed her personal charms: but when I see her large black eyes
flashing fury, and her rosy lips curved into an expression of indignant
scorn, I forget her beauty, and think only of the fearful passions of
her soul."
"Your objections are futile, Edric; at any rate, they are of no avail.
You must marry her--I am sorry it is against your inclination, but I
will not have my authority disputed:--besides, the disappointment to
the duke would be dreadful. It was but this morning that he proposed,
that as soon as you and Edmund should marry, I should give up my estate
to you, and he his to your brother, whilst we two old folks should
retire to the cottage on the hill; and pass the remainder of our lives
in contemplating with rapture the happiness of our children."
"I own the duke is so obstinate--"
"So, you have discovered that, have you? Well, you are right there; for
when he has taken a fancy into his head, no arguments can turn him from
his point. But there is a difference between obstinacy and firmness.
Now, though I am not obstinate like the duke, you shall find I can be
firm, Edric. However, as I have always been an indulgent father, I do
not wish to decide hastily now, and I give you a week to make up your
mind: at the expiration of which time you shall marry Rosabella or quit
my house for ever. No reply, young man, I will not hear a word. Begone;
leave me now, and in a week's time let me know your decision."
It was in vain to attempt a reply; and Edric left his father's presence
oppressed by that strange, mysterious presentiment of evil, which, like
a fearful cloud, dark, gloomy, and impenetrable, sometimes hangs upon
our thoughts, foreboding horrors; though so dimly and indistinctly,
that, like all the gigantic phantoms we sometimes fancy through the
mist of twilight, their terrors seem increased tenfold by the very
uncertainty that half shrouds them from our sight. Mingled with
these feelings, however, was one of wild, unearthly joy. Driven from
his father's house, he would be free to travel--his doubts might be
satisfied--he might, at last, penetrate into the secrets of the grave;
and partake, without restraint, of the so ardently desired fruit of the
tree of knowledge. Nothing would then be hidden from him. Nature would
be forced to yield up her treasures to his view--her mysteries would be
revealed, and he would become great, omniscient, and god-like. His mind
filled with a chaos of thoughts like these, which he strove in vain to
arrange, and which seemed to swell his brain almost to bursting, Edric
involuntarily strolled again into the wood he had so lately quitted,
and again throwing himself upon the banks of the murmuring stream, he
was soon lost in a reverie.