In the mean time, different emotions were agitating violently the
bosoms of the two lovely heiresses of the duke. When they reached the
castle, each of them retired to her separate apartment to ruminate
upon what had passed. Confidence did not exist between them, for
confidence requires congeniality of mind, and those of the fair cousins
were essentially different. Each princess, however, had a favourite
attendant, or rather a companion, in whose bosom she was in the habit
of pouring her thoughts; and, on their arrival at the castle, they
parted immediately, equally eager to find their respective confidants,
and inform them of all that had happened. Marianne had been the
attendant of Rosabella from her childhood; and haughty as the Princess
naturally was, she was, like many other haughty people, completely
the slave of her servant. Marianne was perfectly aware of her power,
and she occasionally used it tyrannically: on the present occasion,
however, she was really alarmed at the glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes,
and agitated frame of Rosabella, and asked, with an appearance of deep
interest, if she were ill.
"In mind, though not in body," replied Rosabella, throwing herself upon
a sofa, and hiding her face in both her hands. "Oh, Marianne! what a
wretch I am!"
"What is the matter?" asked the _suivante_.
"He loves her! he adores her!" cried Rosabella, starting from her couch
and traversing the room rapidly. "Curses on her beauty! O that a look
of mine could wither it! or that she could feel the burning fire that
rages here!" Then stopping suddenly, she gazed upon her attendant with
the wildness of a maniac, and, pressing her hand firmly against her
side, threw herself again upon her couch, exclaiming, "Oh, Marianne!
why am I not beloved like Elvira?"
"And are you certain that she is beloved?"
"Certain!" reiterated Rosabella, wringing her hands; "Alas! alas! would
I were not so certain; but can I doubt the evidence of my senses? This
day--this very day! I saw Father Morris put a letter into her hands,
which was enclosed in that addressed to Sir Ambrose. I saw a blush
of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks as she perused it, and I
could have stabbed her to the heart,--yes, and exulted in her dying
agonies--triumphed in her groans. Oh, Marianne! is it not extraordinary
that one so great, so noble, and so exalted as Edmund, can love such a
poor, weak, feeble being as Elvira? But she loves him not; at least not
as he should be loved. She is incapable of it."
"I wonder Father Morris gave her the letter."
"He could not help it, Marianne. It fell from its enclosure when Sir
Ambrose tore it open; but she saw it fall. I even saw her eye rest upon
the address; Father Morris merely picked it from the ground, and placed
it in her hands."
"I thought he would not have given it to her voluntarily."
"No; I think not. I believe the father is my friend, though I own
sometimes it appears strange to me, Marianne, that he should seem to
prefer my interest to that of every one else, when so many ties bind
him to Sir Ambrose's family, and so few to me: nay, though I am often
peevish and unreasonable with him, he never is offended, and appears to
remain still as warmly attached to me as before:--I cannot account for
it."
"He has ties that bind him to you that you know not of," said Marianne,
in a low, under voice; "he was your father's friend."
"Was he?" cried Rosabella, eagerly; "then perhaps he may enable me to
clear off the shade that has so long hung upon my father's name. By
heaven! neither the gratification of my love nor of my revenge would
give me half the pleasure."
"You had better not ask him," said Marianne, in the same low,
mysterious tone; "you can learn nothing upon that subject which it
would give you pleasure to hear." Then changing her voice, she added,
"But what said Edric to the news of his brother's glory?"
"I know not--I care not! Ice itself cannot be colder than Edric. When
we met, and he offered his hand to greet me, his touch seemed to freeze
my very veins. Cold, prudent, calculating, and cautious, he has all the
vices of age without its excuses:--I hate him!"
"You do not then, I suppose, long for the moment when you are to become
his bride?" asked the companion, with a sarcastic smile.
"Long for it, Marianne?" cried Rosabella, starting from her couch, and
clasping her hands together with energy--"long for it! No; if all other
resources fail, death shall free me before the hated moment arrives."
And as she spoke, Rosabella walked up and down the room, in a state of
violent agitation.
"But your uncle?" resumed Marianne.
"My uncle!" repeated Rosabella, stopping short, "yes, yes; my uncle
is positive--and I--a poor dependant, and in his power. But even
that shall not control my will. Poor and dependant as I am--I am
free; and sooner would I labour for my bread, sooner would I perish
in the streets, or endure unheard of torments, than live in a palace
surrounded by crowds of adoring slaves, if the price were that I must
call Edric husband."
Marianne, satisfied with the ease with which she found she could play
upon the feelings of her mistress, now touched a chord that thrilled to
softer emotions.
"I can never believe," said she, "that a mind so noble as that of
Edmund, can long remain in the thraldom of Elvira. When he comes to
know her better, and to feel the feebleness of her soul, he must
despise her."
"Ah! do you think so?" cried Rosabella eagerly. "But you deceive
yourself, Marianne; Edmund is so blinded that he fancies her very
faults perfections."
"But that blindness cannot last for ever, and when it wears off,
disgust must ensue."
"Oh, Marianne, if it were so!" exclaimed Rosabella; and, sitting down,
she rested her elbows on her knees, and pressed her hands against her
beating forehead, concealing her face and remaining apparently lost in
meditation. Marianne did not disturb her. She was aware that she had
given her active imagination a theme to work upon, and she left her to
enjoy it; tranquilly resuming her usual avocations without seeming to
notice her abstraction.
Whilst this scene was passing in the apartment of Rosabella, Elvira was
informing her confidant, Emma, who had been her governess and remained
her companion, of the pleasure she had experienced from hearing of
the success of Edmund, and from the tenderness of his letter. "How I
wish I could love him as he deserves," said she, "but, alas, I fear
it is not in my nature. I can scarcely even comprehend what he thinks
I ought to feel, and the violence of his manner terrifies me beyond
expression. Is it not extraordinary, Emma, that this passion, which
seems so universally extended throughout all nature, should be alone a
stranger to my breast--that I alone, should be debarred from feeling
its influence? Edmund complains of my coldness; and I feel that he
has reason to do so. I feel that his love is different from mine: I
esteem and respect him; I have even a sincere friendship for him, and
no one values his worth more than I; I should also be very sorry if any
misfortune were to befall him; but this is all, and I do not think I am
capable of feeling more for any one."
"Indeed you deceive yourself," replied Emma; "I am sure a heart so kind
and affectionate as yours is capable of love. Do not marry Lord Edmund;
I am certain you do not love him as you will love one day: and if a day
should arrive, when you feel a real passion, what will be your horror
at the recollection of the sacred ties which bind you to one who is
indifferent to you. I shudder at the thought."
"And so should I, Emma; but that it is impossible such an event can
happen. If I were married to Edmund, I never could love another, even
if my nature were susceptible of the passion: a fact I much doubt."
Emma shook her head incredulously. "Oh!" sighed she; "how little do you
know of love!"
"I know more of it than you imagine. In my opinion, people would never
fall in love, if they had abundance of other thoughts to occupy their
minds. They would marry, of course: but that, as every body knows, is
quite a different thing."
"Then you disbelieve in love entirely?"
"Not entirely; but I think what is generally called love is the
offspring of idleness. When people have nothing to do, particularly
if they happen to have warm imaginations, they amuse themselves by
picturing an idol of perfection. This they endow with all kinds of
virtue probable and improbable; and they are enchanted with the
fantasy, because it is their own creation. They soon find a face or
figure that pleases them, and to this they attach the charms they had
before given their imaginary idol--no matter whether they accord or
not. When people are what is called in love, they are like persons
in green spectacles, they see every thing of a colour that does not
really belong to it. Marriage, however, lifts up the magic veil, and
displays the real faults and imperfections of each individual. The
self-deluded mortals then find out their mistake, though too late; and
start back aghast at the appalling spectre that presents itself, crying
out bitterly against deception; whilst, in fact, they have been only
deceiving themselves."
"You reason admirably; but it is only from the head, not the heart. If
you had ever felt, you would perceive the fallacy of your arguments."
"I think not; for I am convinced the experience of ninety-nine
persons out of a hundred would confirm what I say, if they could but
be persuaded to avow their real sentiments. This, however, they are
always, in such cases, very reluctant to do, as no one likes to own
himself deceived."
"And do you think all love is like that you have been speaking of?"
"Heaven forbid!--No--no, Emma, do not imagine I am such a heretic as to
deny the existence of true love. I only think it is very difficult to
be met with. That it does exist, I firmly believe; but few, very few
are the bosoms that are capable of feeling it."
"Now I agree with you perfectly. I thought you could not mean all you
before asserted."
"Excuse me, Emma, I did mean what I said. But I did not then speak of
real love; I spoke only of the passion, or rather fancy, that usurps
its name. Real, pure, undefiled love is that absorbing affection that
prefers another's happiness to its own; that devotion that would sink
unknown to the grave, to procure another's happiness; that seeks not
its own gratification, but would sacrifice all the world can give,
to promote the welfare of another; that can taste of no pleasure and
partake of no delight, unless it be participated by the beloved object,
and even then, joys in his satisfaction more than in its own. This is
what I call love. I can imagine such a passion, though I shall never
feel it. However, that it _may_ be felt I am firmly convinced: though
even you must acknowledge, it is rare to find it."
"Alas! my dear mistress!" said Emma, sighing heavily. "Every word
you utter, convinces me you deceive yourself. For God's sake, do not
marry Lord Edmund. You could have no idea of the romantic feelings you
describe, if your heart were not open to receive them. Lord Edmund does
not----"
"Hush! hush, Emma!" exclaimed Elvira, playfully interrupting her. "It
is of no use. Say what we will, like most people that argue, we are
sure to remain of the same opinion when we have done. I don't believe
anybody ever yet was convinced by words; we must wait for facts,
and, _en attendant_, suppose we consult upon what dress will be most
becoming for us to wear at the approaching ceremony."
Emma gladly consented; and the princess and her companion were soon
involved in a maze of ribbons, crapes, gauzes, silks and satins, from
which it would be quite in vain for me to attempt to extricate them.
When Edric next saw his father, after the partial explanation that
had taken place between them, he was excessively surprised to find
him behave exactly as usual. The youthful philosopher was rather
disconcerted at this conduct, which completely deranged all his
speculations. In the course of his meditations in the grove, he had
magnanimously made up his mind to endure every species of persecution
rather than submit in the slightest degree to alter his opinions; and
such is the strange and whimsical inconsistency of the human mind,
that he was actually disappointed when he found there appeared little
prospect of his heroic resolutions being called into practice.
It may seem strange to those who are feelingly convinced of the
substantial comforts of an hospitable mansion and well supplied table,
that any one should be found quixotic enough to lament that he had
lost the chance of being deprived of them; but Edric's was the age of
romance. His life had hitherto passed in one dull monotonous round,
and the prospect of bustle and adventure has, in such cases, most
irresistible charms. He also knew nothing of the world; and was almost
as ignorant of the real evils of life, as the French princess, who,
hearing that some persons had died of hunger, wondered at their folly,
and said that for her part, rather than be famished, she would eat
bread and cheese. Thus, as we said before, Edric was rather chagrined
than delighted, when his father greeted him the morning after their
conference as affectionately as before, and very amicably proposed that
as soon as breakfast was ended, they should take a walk together to the
castle of the duke.
Unwilling to vex his father needlessly by refusing, and yet fearful
of compromising his firmness, by appearing to accede to what might be
treachery on the part of his opponents, our young philosopher gave a
rather ungracious assent to this proposition, and remained apparently
absorbed in meditation during the whole walk. They found the duke
extremely busy. Like many other people who have few real affairs to
occupy them, he was quite delighted with any thing that seemed to
promise a little bustle, and was firmly resolved to make the most of
it. He was then giving orders for an illumination, and a public dinner
to his tenants; bell-ringing, speech-making, and a variety of other
things, we have really neither time nor patience to enumerate. Busy as
he was, however, he was glad to see our friends, and greeted them most
cordially.
"You are come in the very nick of time," said he: "I was just upon the
point of sending for you. Do you know, Sir Ambrose, it has struck me
that this triumph of Edmund's will be an admirable opportunity for his
marriage; ay, and for yours too, Edric. What say you, Sir Ambrose?"
"Oh! of course I can have no objection."
"And of course," resumed the Duke, "I do not suppose the young men can
have any. What do you say, Edric?"
But Edric did not speak: for, to own the truth, he did not exactly know
what to say.
"Edric is so delighted, that it has deprived him of the power of
utterance," observed the baronet, rather maliciously, perceiving the
duke grow impatient.
"I trust your grace will excuse me," said Edric, at length recovering
himself; "but----but----"
"But what?" said the duke, impatiently.
"I thought," resumed Edric, with considerable hesitation, "that your
grace did not intend that the princesses should marry--till--till they
had passed the age that would render--that is to say, that does render
them eligible candidates for the throne.--"
Edric did not express himself very clearly; as he was not altogether
certain of what he was saying. The duke, however, heard enough to put
him into a passion.
"So I did," exclaimed he, "I know that perfectly; but I have altered my
mind, I tell you: Claudia isn't above thirty, and she's likely to live
these fifty years,--so it is of no use waiting for her death. Besides,
I should like to see my children married before I die. I am getting
old; and anxiety in these respects increases with declining years."
"Then my anxiety ought to be greater than yours, duke, for I am the
eldest," said Sir Ambrose.
"By a couple of years, at least," returned the duke, laughing, "for I
suppose that is about the difference in our ages. But you don't answer
me, Edric. Do you think you have eloquence enough to persuade your
mistress to relinquish the prospect of a throne in your behalf?"
"I would not wish her to make any sacrifice upon my account," replied
Edric.
"Confound such coldness! why, when I was a young man, my heart would
have beat like a pendulum in perpetual motion at such a proposition. Go
to her, man! and try your fortune.--
'She is a woman, therefore to be wooed;
She is a woman, therefore to be won;'
or rather what, perhaps, will be better, I will send for her here, and
tell her my will. Egad! I have a mind to surprise Edmund, and let you
grace his triumph as bride and bridegroom."
"Rosabella would never consent to such a proposition," exclaimed Edric,
willing to postpone the dreaded explanation as long as possible.
"I think not," resumed the duke, "if you woo her with that face.
However, you need not distress yourself, as you will have nothing to
say till you get to the altar. I'll take all the rest upon myself, and
I've a notion I shall prove the better suitor. I know women well, and
how to manage them. I'll defy any woman in the world to have a will of
her own whilst she is in my custody. I know how to quiet them and bring
them round. You shall see how I will manage Rosabella. She won't have a
word to say for herself. Here Augustus, tell the Princess Rosabella I
wish to speak with her."
"Hold!" cried Edric, "I cannot allow you to send for the princess till
I have first explained my real sentiments----"
"Nonsense!" said the duke. "However, I see there is no occasion to
send for her; for yonder she comes. I will meet her and explain my
sentiments, and then it will be quite time enough to talk about yours."
So saying, he broke from Edric, who attempted to detain him; and
advanced to meet Rosabella.
"Good God!" exclaimed Edric, "what will become of me? this obstinate
old man will tell her, I wish our union: and for worlds, I would not
mortify the proud spirit of Rosabella, by publicly declining her hand.
What shall I do? I must request a private interview, and throwing
myself upon her mercy, persuade her to reject me."
"Then you still persist in your determination," said Sir Ambrose. "I
had hoped my kindness in appearing to forget what passed yesterday, had
disposed you to comply with my wishes. However, since you seem inclined
to adhere to your resolution, you cannot be surprised that I should
follow your example, and I can only repeat, that if you do not marry
Rosabella, you know the alternative."
"I do," said Edric, firmly; "and I am prepared to meet it."
In the mean time, the duke had met Rosabella, and had evidently begun
to declare his wishes to her, for the colour had fled from her cheeks,
and her eyes were cast upon the ground, whilst her strongly compressed
lips, as she walked silently by his side, showed that it was with
infinite difficulty that she controlled her feelings sufficiently to
hear him with patience.
"In short," said the duke, as they drew near Sir Ambrose and his son,
"I have fixed upon the day after to-morrow for your wedding, and,
though I own the time is somewhat short to make preparations, you must
be satisfied to have your wedding clothes after your marriage instead
of before, which I should think need not make much difference. So now
all you'll have to do, will be to tell your cousin; and the day after
to-morrow your name will be Montagu."
"And do you know of whom you are disposing so unceremoniously?" asked
Rosabella, raising her brilliant eyes from the ground, and fixing them
upon him with a look of proud scorn. The duke shrunk involuntarily from
the withering glance, which seemed to fall upon him with the fabled
power of that of the basilisk.
"Of whom I am disposing?" stammered he, unconsciously repeating her
words, "Of whom I am disposing? Why, of my niece, to be sure," he
continued, arranging with difficulty his scattered ideas. "You are my
niece, are you not?"
"Yes," returned Rosabella, "unfortunately _I am_ your niece; and I
blush for an uncle who does not scruple to abuse so barbarously the
last legacy bequeathed to him by an unfortunate brother. Yes, my lord
duke, I am your niece--your protégée--your dependant. I am not ashamed
to own that I owe my daily bread to your bounty; but notwithstanding
all this, I am not aware that I am your slave, nor do I think the
pecuniary obligations I am under to you, sufficient to give you the
right of disposing of me as an article of furniture, or a beast of
burthen."
"You mistake the matter entirely, Rosabella," said the duke; "I do not
wish to hurt your feelings."
"Do you think, then, that I am formed of stone or iron, that I am to be
told to marry when and where you list, without having my inclinations
consulted or my affections gained? Look at the bridegroom for whom you
destine me. Certainly I must be insensibility itself to resist such
overwhelming ardour."
"You are right, Rosabella," replied the duke; "he is enough to provoke
a stone. I admire your spirit; a woman should not unsought be won, and
he, I own, looks as if he expected you to go down upon your knees, and
beg him to accept of your hand."
"You are mistaken," returned Edric, now taunted into the necessity of
avowing himself, in spite of his former resolutions; "it is not merely
coldness that dictates my conduct. I should have explained myself
before, had you permitted it, though I would willingly have spared the
princess this public declaration. However, as I am now forced to avow
my real sentiments, I openly and solemnly protest, that no torments
shall ever force me to become the husband of Rosabella. I am sorry----"
"Spare your pity, Sir," said the princess, haughtily, and interrupting
him--"I, at least, have no occasion for it; for know, that I too would
sooner experience a thousand deaths than become your wife. Nothing but
the respect I owe my uncle has prevented my declaring my sentiments
sooner."
"And only my affection for my father kept me silent."
"What a considerate pair! and how highly we ought to feel obliged
to them!" said the duke, ironically. "And pray, if your respect and
affection permit you to answer the question, what may it be your high
will and pleasure to intend doing now?"
"Whatever you please," replied both Edric and Rosabella, almost at the
same instant.
"Dear me! how amazingly condescending! So, as long as you are permitted
to have your own way, we may have the honour of suggesting plans for
your approbation whenever we please. How astonishingly kind! I am
afraid we shall never be able to show ourselves properly grateful, Sir
Ambrose."
"This irony, my lord," said Edric, firmly, "is unworthy both of
yourself and us. I will allow that you and my father have both reason
to be displeased with our conduct, as it has disappointed hopes
which you have long cherished; but permit me to say, that if you had
expressed your displeasure in serious, manly, and open terms as he
did, it would have been much more befitting your high rank and the
importance of the subject, than the taunting irony you have thought
proper to make use of."
"Schooled too! by St. Wellington!" exclaimed the duke. "Upon my word,
these are fine times, when a man of my age and rank is to be lectured
by a beardless stripling!"
"I did not mean to offend your grace," said Edric; "and I am sorry the
violence of my feelings compelled me to use language unbefitting my
youth, and disrespectful to an old and valued friend of my father."
"Say no more, young man," replied the duke, "apologies only double an
offence. If such are your sentiments, I would rather you declared than
concealed them, as I think even insolence preferable to hypocrisy.
However, after what has passed, I can never meet you amicably again,
and I shall even avoid entering the house of my friend, Sir Ambrose,
whilst you remain in it." This was spoken with dignity, and a majestic
firmness of tone. The duke's voice, however, trembled a little as he
continued--"I shall be sorry to lose the society of my old friend, and
I should be equally sorry to induce him to desert you, but I cannot
willingly expose myself to insult; and I must accordingly decline all
farther intercourse with your family."
"Decline all farther intercourse with our family!" exclaimed Sir
Ambrose. "This from you, duke! And Edmund! my darling Edmund! is he to
suffer for the faults of his brother?"
"How do you know that the loss of my daughter would make him suffer?"
asked the duke, sneeringly. "Perhaps when the moment came for me to
give her to him, he too would make a bow, and humbly asking my pardon,
beg leave to decline the honour. Oh! curse such politeness!"
"My dear duke, I would answer for Edmund with my life. He adores
Elvira, and loves you as a father. You, too, have always _professed_ to
love him--"
"And so I do. Didn't I rejoice like an old fool at his triumph? Didn't
I determine to give my daughter, and bestow my estate upon him? And
were not these proofs of love?"
"They were, they were! my dear friend! and, as he has never done
any thing to offend you, why should not your favourable intentions
continue? Why should you punish him on account of this ungrateful
idiot, whom I renounce for ever."
"Oh, my father! my dear father!" exclaimed Edric; "do not say for ever!"
"Yes, for ever! I repeat," resumed Sir Ambrose. "Begone and let me
never see you more. I told you yesterday my determination, and as you
have chosen to incur the penalty, you must take the consequence. Come,
my friend," continued he, taking the arm of the duke, "let us leave him
to his own reflections. Thank God! we are none of us answerable for the
faults of our children; and it would indeed be sad, if you and I were
to break a friendship that has lasted half a century, on account of the
childish folly of an inconsiderate boy!"
"It would, indeed," returned the duke; "and it would have broken my
heart to have quarreled with my darling Edmund. Yet, it is hard, at my
time of life, to be disappointed in one's fondest hopes."
And as he walked away with Sir Ambrose, the tears actually streamed
down his cheeks. Both Edric and Rosabella were affected, but, wisely
considering that they could say nothing likely to allay the storm, they
remained silent till the old men had gradually disappeared.