The morning appointed for the election of the council of state was
passed by Elvira in the most intense anxiety. For herself, she had no
wish to be a Queen--nay, perhaps she trembled at the thought; but when
she saw how earnestly it was desired by her father, and thought of
the bitterness of his disappointment should she be rejected, her eyes
filled with tears, and she felt ready to make any sacrifice to promote
his happiness.
Thus, trembling with agitation, yet fearing alike every change, the
fair Elvira sate, leaning her head upon her hand, whilst Sir Ambrose,
whose rank did not entitle him to a vote, Dr. Coleman, and Henry
Seymour, endeavoured to console her.
"My dear young lady," said the good doctor, "indeed, indeed, I think
you distress yourself quite unnecessarily. With such supporters as your
father and Lord Edmund, I do not think you can fail of success."
"You quite mistake me, doctor, I assure you," returned the princess; "I
think not of the crown, yet it is not possible to express what I have
suffered during the last few hours. Ere my father went to the council
this morning, his agitation was so excessive that I feared it would
destroy him, and my impatience for his return is become almost agony."
"Let me entreat your Highness to be composed," said Henry Seymour. "You
torment yourself with vain terrors. I cannot suffer myself to imagine
for a moment that the duke can be otherwise than successful."
"My dear child," observed Sir Ambrose, "exert your own good sense;
nothing can be more foolish than to let imaginary horrors usurp any
influence over your senses; you thus suffer doubly, and often the pains
of anticipation exceed those of reality. But, see, here comes Father
Murphy, and my little lively niece, Clara. Well, father, what news?
Will the princess be Queen?"
"Och, and there can be no manner of doubt of it!" returned Father
Murphy.
Elvira turned pale. "God in his mercy grant you may be mistaken!" said
she.
"Oh, dear!" cried Clara, involuntarily.
"Why do you exclaim, fair lady?" asked the doctor, smiling.
"I am so surprised--so astonished!" said the blushing girl.
"At what?" resumed the doctor inquisitively.
"That--that," said Clara timidly, "that the princess should not like to
be a Queen."
"Alas! alas!" said Elvira, smiling languidly, "you are too young,
Clara, to know the awful responsibility such a situation would impose.
The Queen of England must devote herself to her people; once elected,
she is cut off for ever from all the happiness of domestic life. She
must form no ties--she must indulge in no attachments--she can never
feel the happiness of devoting herself entirely to promote the welfare
of one adored object. She can never know the transports of a mother!"
and, sighing deeply, Elvira cast her eyes upon the ground, whilst those
of Henry Seymour were fixed earnestly upon her.
"Yet all this," said Sir Ambrose, "is rather imaginary than real.
The subjects of a good Queen ought to be her children; and the glory
of contributing to the happiness of thousands, and ruling nations by
a nod, may well compensate for the humbler comforts of a domestic
fireside."
"I do not agree with you," rejoined Dr. Coleman; "I think the
situation of a Queen is one both of trouble and responsibility. We
all know how difficult it is to give satisfaction even in the most
ordinary occurrences of life; and how much more must that difficulty
be increased in such an exalted station. Besides, it seems cruel to
condemn a young and beautiful woman to the miseries of celibacy. Woman
naturally seems to want support; she is to man, what the clinging ivy
is to the majestic oak,--its loveliest ornament; but take away the
standard tree, and she falls forlorn and unsupported to the dust. Do
you not think so, Mr. Seymour?"
The youth started at this appeal, for his thoughts had indeed wandered
far from the scene before him. "Yes," said he, after a short pause.
Sir Ambrose laughed heartily. "Upon my word," said he, "I congratulate
you, Dr. Coleman, upon your happiness in having such attentive
auditors. The princess looks as if she had not heard a single word
that you have said; whilst Mr. Seymour, when you appeal to him for his
opinion, only starts, and says 'Yes.'"
"You are quite right, Sir Ambrose," returned Dr. Coleman, smiling
good-humouredly; "and I begin to discover that reasons are quite
useless when the feelings are interested."
"Och!" said Father Murphy; "and my opinion is that we have all rason to
be interested; for I should not be surprised at all at all, if the King
of Ireland was to take advantage of our troubles, to make a descent
upon us. There is no time so fitting for throwing every thing into
confusion, as when nobody knows what he is doing."
"There may be much justice in your remark, holy father," said Henry
Seymour, smiling; "but, for my own part, I own I do not apprehend the
King of Ireland has any such bloody-minded intentions."
"Report speaks highly of his son," observed Elvira.
"Not more highly than he deserves," cried Doctor Coleman
enthusiastically. "The youthful Roderick is brave, noble, and generous;
possessing every quality to fit him for a hero; and is quite incapable
of any thing bordering upon meanness."
"Is he handsome?" asked Clara, with infinite _naïveté_, looking up
earnestly at the doctor as she spoke.
"As the Achilles of the ancients," replied the doctor.
"Dear me, how I should like to see him!" said the little beauty, with
the utmost simplicity:--"Should not you, Mr. Seymour?"
"I cannot say I have any curiosity," returned Henry Seymour, having
infinite difficulty to help laughing.
"Dear me, how very odd!" said Clara, looking at him earnestly; "I do
believe the doctor was only quizzing us, and that he's very ugly and
disagreeable. Is he, Mr. Seymour?"
The air and manner with which she put this question, quite destroyed
the small remains of gravity Henry Seymour had till now with so much
difficulty preserved; and, bursting into a violent fit of laughter,
he rushed out of the room. Every body looked astonished, and Dr.
Coleman embarrassed. After a short pause, however, he seemed to recover
himself. "It is very strange the duke does not come," said he, pulling
out his watch. "The council must be chosen before this; and they seldom
stay to deliberate long at a first sitting."
"I am miserable," cried Elvira. "If he should be ill!"
"Shall I seek him?" asked Dr. Coleman; and, reading her assent in her
countenance, he quitted the room.
"The doctor is very obliging," said Sir Ambrose; "but he never did like
Rosabella. He hated her father, and when Duke Edgar--but, I forget! his
history is a secret which must rest for ever in my own breast."
"Do tell _me_, uncle!" cried Clara coaxingly; "I should so like to hear
it, and every body says you know all about him."
"And what can his history have to do with such a little chit as you?"
"I don't know," said Clara with the utmost innocence; "but I am sure I
should like to hear it."
"Why?" again asked Sir Ambrose.
"Because every body says it is a secret," replied Clara, clinging round
him, and fondly stroking his face;--"so do tell me, my dear uncle, pray
do?"
"You are a little coaxing witch," said Sir Ambrose, patting her long
silky hair; "I would tell you any thing in reason, but the history of
the father of Rosabella--"
"Rosabella!" cried the duke, bursting into the apartment with the fury
of a maniac--"Rosabella! who speaks of Rosabella? She is a wretch, a
vile, insidious wretch! She has destroyed me--she has conspired to
destroy my child!"
And as he spake, the agonized old man sank into a chair, fainting
with exhaustion, whilst a sanguine stream gushed from his mouth and
nostrils, a blood-vessel having been ruptured by the violence of his
emotions. Elvira shrieked in anguish, and, dreadfully terrified, threw
herself upon her knees beside him, imploring him to speak to her,
whilst Sir Ambrose, even more alarmed than herself, ran screaming for
assistance. Dr. Coleman and Henry Seymour were at hand. The duke,
and his daughter, who had fainted, were conveyed to their separate
apartments, attended by Clara, Sir Ambrose, and the doctor, whilst
Henry Seymour and Father Murphy were left together.
"O Beauty!" thought Henry Seymour, as he watched the lovely form of
Elvira, looking like some fair flower drooping on its stem, carried
past him, "how omnipotent is thy power! Even the savage monarch of
the forest, tamed by thee, has crouched beside a maiden's feet! How
heavenly does she look! pure as the immortal spirit, when, ere his
breast was sullied by the grosser passions, man first conversed with
God!"
"And sure if it's the princess ye're thinking of," said Father Murphy,
tired of being so long silent, "ye've rason to look so sadly after her,
for it's all over, and she'll never be Queen."
Henry Seymour started: the voice of the holy father sounded harsh and
discordant in his ears; it had dispelled all his fairy dreams; and with
a movement of impatience he threw open some folding doors, and walked
into the garden. Father Murphy followed him.
"And where is it that ye're going?" asked he.
"I would be alone," said Henry in a commanding tone.
"And so ye shall be," returned Father Murphy, "when I'm after laving
ye; and that I will do in a whiffey. But--"
"Begone!" cried a peculiarly low, hollow voice which sounded close to
the friar's ear, He started, and as he looked up, the withering glance
of Cheops fell full upon him; he screamed wildly and fled, uttering
shrieks of terror.
Cheops looked after him with a scornful smile, and then fixing his
superhuman eyes on Henry Seymour, he waited for him to speak. Few were
the human beings who could have met that scowl unmoved. Those wild
eyes, shaded as they were by the thick dark brows above them, always
seemed to sink direct to the beholder's soul: Henry Seymour, however,
shrank not from their gaze. A long pause ensued.
"You wish for help," said Cheops, "and it is in my power to assist you.
I know you well, you are not what you seem; but fear not, and all your
hopes shall be fulfilled."
"Alas! how can they?" said the youth, "when I know them not myself."
"Hear me!" returned Cheops; "you love Elvira, you would fain become
her husband, and would yet not deprive her of the crown. Even now, you
were revolving in your mind a scheme to reconcile these two apparently
incompatible objects; but, besides innumerable minor obstacles, one
great one destroys your plans--you have a father."
"In the name of Heaven!" cried Henry Seymour wildly, "who and what art
thou?"
But, ere he had finished speaking, the Mummy was gone. "Fiend! demon!"
cried the youth, "what means this unreal mockery? But thou shalt not
escape me thus."
In the mean time, the duke had somewhat recovered, and, by permission
of Dr. Coleman, Lord Edmund and Sir Ambrose were admitted to his
chamber. The reverend Fathers Morris and Murphy were there already.
"I believe it is quite against the rules," said the doctor, "to allow
visitors to a patient in the duke's state;--but he is so irritable, I
fear keeping him in suspense might occasion a relapse."
"I am sorry to see you thus, my dearest friend," said Edmund, pressing
the duke's hand warmly; "you have always been a second father to me,
and, God knows! I love you as myself."
The Duke fervently returned his pressure, but he could not speak. "My
dear, dear friend!" said Sir Ambrose, the tears trembling in his eyes.
"Come! come!" said Dr. Colman, good-humouredly, "I must not let you
agitate my patient. Lord Edmund is only come, my Lord Duke, to take
leave. He is going into the country to try to exert his influence
amongst the electors."
The duke shook his head.
"I must not have you despair," said Sir Ambrose; "we shall beat them
yet: not but that we must fight hard, for Rosabella is as crafty as a
fox, and you see what a party she has made:--besides, she's as selfish
as her father."
"No," said the duke feebly, and speaking with great difficulty; "Edgar
was not selfish."
"The influence of natural affection is astonishing!" said Sir Ambrose;
"since it makes you speak thus of one who has so grossly injured you."
"Edgar's faults," replied the duke, scarcely able to articulate, "were
rather those of circumstance than of feeling. I am convinced of it, and
forgive him. Nay, if he were alive, and I could see him, I would clasp
him to my heart."
"Och!" said Father Murphy, "and that's said just like yourself;
for there's nothing so like a Christian spirit as forgiving our
enemies;--and so may Heaven prosper and bless all that love ye, and
send all that hate ye to the Devil."
"But how does that accord with the Christian spirit you were talking
of?" asked Dr. Coleman, smiling.
"Och!" replied Father Murphy, "and it's clane another thing. For none
but the Devil's own brats could hate the duke, and he's a right to his
own, surely."
Dr. Coleman, though not quite convinced by the sophistry of the holy
father, did not attempt to controvert it; and the party, fearing to
fatigue the duke, soon after separated.
A few hours after this conversation, Father Morris was walking in one
of the shadiest parts of the garden of Mr. Montagu, where the thick
trees spread over his head, and by their umbrageous foliage, almost
shut out the light of the sun. In the very centre of this gloomy grove,
a funereal urn had been erected by one of the former possessors of the
mansion, over which hung a weeping willow. The monument had once been
gaudily adorned with bright colours and gilding, to mark the armorial
bearings and dignity of the dust that mouldered below. Now, however,
damp and neglect had hastened the work of Time in that secluded spot.
The once white marble was stained with a dirty green, and moss had
grown round the crumbling monument of former greatness: the plaster
effigies of the arms had cracked, and peeled off in places; whilst
wild-flowers had taken root in the fissures, and reared their blooming
heads, and twined their fantastic wreaths around the mouldering stone,
hanging in wild luxuriant festoons over this emblem of decay, as though
to mock the feeble efforts of man to perpetuate his name, and assert
triumphantly the supremacy of Nature.
Father Morris was struck by the effect produced by this apparently
simple circumstance, and he stood with his arms folded on his breast,
attentively gazing upon the urn: "And for this," thought he, "yes, even
for such perishable baubles as these, does man risk his immortal soul.
For this, for honours that decay even whilst we gaze upon them; for
fame, which the slightest breath may blow away, light as the thistle's
down; for wealth and power, which, past a certain point, pall on the
senses; and for ambition, we sacrifice all the mind holds dear to it.
And what is ambition? What real happiness can fame, wealth, or power
bestow? I will repent; it is not yet too late:--for worlds I would not
harm that poor old man. Yes, he has still a heart. I am not wholly
lost. Oh! how his look, his voice thrilled to my inmost soul, and
awakened feelings I thought for ever dead. Oh, Julia! Julia! surely thy
blest spirit would rejoice if angels can still feel for mortals, at my
repentance. Oh, if one fatal act could but be recalled, and one fiend
be satisfied, I might still be saved!"
And overpowered by his emotions, even his firm heart was softened; he
leant his head against the mouldering urn, and, hiding his face in
his cowl, he wept. Blest were those bitter tears, and sweet were the
sensations that stole over the mind of the monk as they flowed; for
they were the first fruits of human feeling that had long touched that
savage breast. Soothed by their healing balm, and half forgetting the
cares that hung about him, Father Morris still reclined against the
tomb; whilst mild and pleasing images floated before his fancy, and the
fairy form of Happiness rose again upon his sight, and, though dim and
indistinct by distance, seemed once more to beckon him forward through
the mist of time. Lost in these meditations, the most delightful he
had long indulged in, the father remained unheedful of the lapse of
time, till he was startled by a tap upon his shoulder, and, turning, he
beheld the giant form of Cheops.
"Fiend, demon, devil!" cried he, passionately; "avaunt! and tempt me
not!"
The Mummy burst into one of his frightful laughs of derision.
"What!" said he, "have you forgot your friend? your confidant? your
confederate? And is it thus you treat him? Have you forgot our compact
and your oath? which, if it were necessary, was to be sealed with
blood?" (The friar shuddered, whilst Cheops continued:) "Pshaw! pshaw!
talk not of temptation! The passions in that breast defy its power; for
demons scarce could credit them. Fear not temptation then, most pure
and most immaculate priest! for know, I can read thy heart: and I--yes,
even I--shudder at the wickedness it conceals!"
"My feelings are changed--I repent!"
"Impossible! your repentance is but as a passing shade before a glowing
fire, which, even if not removed, would be soon devoured by the flames!"
"I tell you, my purpose is changed:--I will no longer plot against the
duke; and Elvira, if she will, may be Queen."
"'And do you think a crown so enviable then,'" said the Mummy,
repeating the friar's own words, once addressed to him, "'that you
think you would injure her by depriving her of its cares?'"
"Devil!" cried the father, unable to resist the feelings these words
had conjured up.
"And these are mortals," said Cheops; "they sin, and they repent! Thus
adding hypocrisy to guilt, and doubling their crimes by the knowledge
they have of their enormity!"
"Demon!" returned Father Morris; "the words of that old man wrung my
heart; and I would sacrifice all the world can give, to throw myself
upon his breast, and obtain his forgiveness."
"I believe you think so _now_," said Cheops maliciously; "but when
Rosabella shall be Queen, and wealth and dignities shall be dispensed
by Father Morris; when nobles shall bend humbly before him, and,
hanging upon his smile, beg favours from his hand, then--"
"Curses on thee, fiend!" cried Father Morris, rushing from the grove,
and pressing his cowl round his head with both his hands, as though he
feared the horrid laugh of Cheops should echo in his ears, and sting
him into madness.
"Weak, feeble worm!" exclaimed Cheops, with a scornful laugh, looking
after the friar as he darted from his sight; "and yet this man boasts
of his intellect; ay, and rules his fellow-men almost to his will!
Degenerate wretches! O powerful Osiris! if from thy dread abode thou
deignest to look down upon thy votary, pity him now! condemned to waste
his days amongst this hated race! And thou, fell Typhon! dread avenging
deity! say, will thy awful wrath accept of victims such as these? Alas!
I fear vengeance like thine will not be thus appeased! and that thy
never-dying fire, will still gnaw my vitals. Oh! these mortals _think_
they suffer: but what are their torments when compared to mine?"
As he spoke, he gnashed his teeth in fury, whilst again the expression
of passions, too tremendous to be conceived by mortals, darkened on his
brow.