The effect produced by the scene just described upon the minds of the
multitude was magical. It seemed a confirmation "strong as proofs of
holy writ" of all that had been urged against the Queen, and alienated
from her side even those who had remained neutral.
"I really could not have believed it possible," said the Duke of Essex,
as he retired slowly from the court.
"Thinking as I think, and as I am confident every one else must think,"
said Lord Gustavus, "she seems to have lost all sense even of common
decency."
"What do you say to this, Sir Ambrose?" asked Dr. Hardman triumphantly.
"Nothing," replied Sir Ambrose, sighing.
"Then the case is hopeless," said the Duke of Essex; "for I know Sir
Ambrose so well, that I am certain if a single word could be said in
the Queen's behalf, he would not remain silent."
"Your grace judges me too favourably," returned Sir Ambrose; "for there
is, on the contrary, much to be said for the Queen, if I had been
disposed to say it. You see the story of her wishing to marry Ferdinand
was evidently false, for she desired him in plain terms to quit the
kingdom."
"A mere blind," cried Lord Gustavus, who felt he had now gone too far
to recede; "an absolute farce; and I am only astonished a man of your
penetration, Sir Ambrose, could have been deceived by it."
"It has long been the proudest boast of the English law," said Sir
Ambrose, "that every one is presumed innocent till he be proved guilty;
and I confess I do not see why the Queen should alone be made an
exception to the rule."
Lord Gustavus made no reply, and the party proceeded to their several
homes. The following day was appointed for the trial of Lord Edmund,
and the court was, if possible, yet more crowded than before; for the
singular termination of Prince Ferdinand's trial had created the most
intense anxiety upon the part of the mob to know what would be the
result of that of Lord Edmund. It has been already stated that he was
the idol of the people, and now thousands of human voices shouted his
praises to the sky, and heaped curses and execrations upon his enemies.
The tumult, however, was hushed to breathless expectation when it
was announced that the officers of justice were gone in search of
the prisoner; and innumerable human beings stood craning their necks
over the lane made for his approach through the crowd, all eager to
catch the first glimpse of him. But what language can express their
disappointment and surprise when they saw the officers return, pale
and trembling, fear painted upon their countenances, and their teeth
chattering in their heads!
"He is gone," they cried: "the prison door was locked, and the windows
fast, but he is gone; and doubtless some evil spirit has carried him
off."
Great was the consternation excited by this unexpected news; every
one rushed to the prison, and each in turn was struck with horror on
finding it exactly in the state the officers had described.--"It is
the Mummy that has done this," said the people, whispering amongst
themselves: "some horrible event certainly hangs over us; and it is in
vain to attempt to resist our destiny! All is supernatural, and we are
merely blind instruments in the hands of Fate."
The disappearance of Lord Edmund had, however, nothing supernatural
in it; and, indeed was effected by very simple means, and mere mortal
agents. The agitation of his mind after his interview with Cheops
became excessive, and every hour seemed stretched to an unnatural
length as he anxiously awaited Father Morris's return; but the monk
came not. Lord Edmund's impatience increased every instant, till it
became absolute agony; yet still he was alone. He paced his chamber
with uncertain steps--his brain burning with incipient madness, till,
no longer knowing what he did, he dashed his head against the walls,
and tore off his hair by handfuls. In this state the gaoler found him;
and reporting his condition, his trial, which was to have taken place
previously to that of Ferdinand, was postponed a few days to allow time
for his recovery.
Bleeding and blistering reduced Lord Edmund's fever; but his soul was
still on fire. In the paroxysms of his disorder, no less than in his
lucid intervals, one sole idea seemed to have taken possession of his
fancy; and he inquired incessantly if Father Morris were returned? No,
no, was the continual answer to his queries; till the heart of the poor
prisoner sickened within him at the sound. At length, he appeared well
enough to take his trial, and the day was fixed, as we have already
stated. The mind of Edmund now seemed tolerably composed; but it was
the stillness of apathy, rather than that of resignation; and on the
night preceding the day fixed for his trial, some of his former anxious
and tormenting fantasies returned.
"I will shake off this weakness," said he; "I will read;" and, drawing
his chair near the fire, he took up a book: it was in vain, however;
for though he read over the same page repeatedly, he could not compose
his mind sufficiently to comprehend its meaning. He threw his book
aside, and, fixing his eyes upon the fire, was soon lost in gloomy
meditations: when a slight noise attracted his attention; and, looking
round, he saw a panel in the wall slowly detach itself, and Father
Morris appear in the aperture, followed by another figure, closely
wrapped in a large black cloak.
"Father Morris!" cried Edmund; "is it indeed Father Morris; or some
kind spirit that has assumed his shape?"
"It is indeed I, my son!" returned the priest; "and I come to rescue
and console you."
"Methinks you come somewhat late, father," said Edmund, rather coldly;
"for I have suffered much since I saw you!"
"Others have suffered also," resumed the monk, "and for your sake!
Notwithstanding you have fancied yourself neglected and forgotten by
all the world, there is one human being who has never ceased to watch
over you; who thinks only of you; who makes your happiness her only
care; and who would sacrifice her life to preserve yours!"
Edmund's heart beat, and his cheeks glowed as he exclaimed, "And this
kind friend is?"
"Now before you!" interrupted the monk; tearing aside the cloak that
shrouded his companion, and discovering Rosabella!
"Rosabella!" exclaimed Edmund; a slight shade of disappointment passing
over his features.
"Oh Edmund!" cried Rosabella, throwing herself at his feet, "can you
forget that I have overstepped the bounds prescribed to my sex: will
you not hate me?"
"I do not blame you. I were unworthy of the name of man if I could. But
father, what says Elvira? Have you delivered the chain?"
"She refuses either to see or hear from you."
"Cruel woman! But perhaps she dreads to see me?"
"I know not; but she treated your petition with contempt. 'Tell him,'
said she, 'it is not possible he can have aught to say that can
interest me. I will not hear his suit.'"
"Proud, haughty princess! But was this all?"
"No: I again entreated her to see you, when she turned from me in
scorn, and bade me leave her. 'Talk not to me of Edmund,' cried she,
with a look of ineffable contempt. 'Has he not wounded Ferdinand, and
would you have me forgive him?--a thousand deaths are not sufficient to
punish such a crime!'"
"What strange infatuation!"
"Strange, indeed--for she has interrupted his trial and set him free;
besides which, they say she has actually offered her hand and he
has refused it; yet still she dotes upon him to distraction. 'Go,'
continued she, when I had finished all I had to say, 'and tell Edmund,
that I neither hate nor despise him; for he is incapable of exciting
any emotion in my breast; however, if he wishes to make amends for his
past conduct, and be restored to my favour, his first step must be,
humbly to beg pardon of the prince.'"
"Damnation!" cried Edmund, starting up fiercely: "she did not, surely
she could not, say that?"
"Indeed she did, my lord."
"Then may ten thousand curses light upon me if I forgive her! Pardon
of that wretch! my slave! my prisoner! no, sooner would I expire in
horrid torments--sooner be torn asunder by wild beasts.--Pardon of that
boy!--oh! she could not mean it."
Whilst Edmund thus raved, Father Morris and Rosabella watched his
torments with much of the same coolness, as a French philosopher would
those of an unfortunate animal upon which he was trying experiments. No
feeling of compassion entered their souls, and they only waited to see
the effect their words would produce. It may easily be perceived that
the whole scene which Father Morris related as having passed between
him and Elvira, was a fabrication; but Lord Edmund saw not this, for
jealousy often throws a veil over the eyes of its victims, which
gives a delusive colouring to every thing they see. Thus, Lord Edmund
believed every word the father uttered, and his whole frame trembled
with agitation as he paced the room with hasty strides. At last,
he threw himself upon a chair--"Beg his pardon!" exclaimed he: "Oh
Elvira! Elvira!" and he hid his face in his hands, whilst the big tears
trickled through his fingers, and Lord Edmund, the stern, courageous
soldier, the philosopher, the hero, and the statesman, wept, actually
wept, like a feeble child.
"Oh Edmund!" exclaimed Rosabella, approaching him, and taking his
hand--"I cannot bear to see you in distress. Would to Heaven that by
the sacrifice even of my life I could relieve you!"
"Rosabella, you will drive me to distraction."
"Not for worlds, Edmund; on the contrary, were I mistress of worlds, I
would cast them at your feet."
"I know it--I know it; but spare me now."
"Spare you, Edmund! Spare what? spare my reproaches, mean you? Alas!
you need not fear them. Am I not devoted to you? Is it not for your
sake that I have thus passed the boundaries of my sex? Are you
disgusted with my boldness? But no: you will surely forgive me, for
my only motive has been to save you, and my only hope of happiness is
bound up in yours."
"Rosabella!" repeated Edmund, "I believe that you love me."
"Love you! Oh heavens! can you doubt my love?"
"I do not doubt it, and this last action proves it more than words. I
have long done you injustice; can you forgive me, Rosabella?"
"Oh Edmund!" exclaimed the princess, whilst her full heart heaved
almost to bursting and the tears streamed down her face.
"I have been the victim of infatuation," continued Edmund; "I have
loved a false, ungrateful woman, who has betrayed me. But I see
my folly; and if tears of penitence shed at your feet can earn my
pardon--if you will accept a broken, bleeding heart--"
"Oh Edmund!" interrupted Rosabella, throwing herself into his arms,
"say no more--I am yours--yours for ever--your devoted slave--"
"Not my slave, Rosabella," said Edmund, gently disengaging her from
him, and placing her upon a chair, "but my wife, my beloved wife."
"Your wife!" exclaimed Rosabella, "Edmund's wife! am I indeed so blest?
Oh no! surely it is a dream, a fond delusive dream! You cannot surely
be serious."
"Is this a moment for jest?" asked Edmund calmly.
"It certainly is not," said Father Morris, whose agitation had been
nearly equal to their own, and who had stood gazing upon them with
looks of the fondest affection. "We must immediately escape, or it will
be too late; it wants but two hours of daybreak, and, with the dawn,
Lord Edmund's trial will commence."
"True, true!" cried Rosabella, "I had forgotten. Dearest Edmund, you
must condescend to fly, or your precious life will be sacrificed."
"But how shall I escape?"
"Through this panel. A balloon waits at a little distance, and this
cloak will conceal your person from observation."
"Dear Rosabella!"
"Come, come," cried Father Morris, "we have no time to lose. Though
Ferdinand was acquitted you must fall, for the state requires a victim."
Lord Edmund waited for no more; the name of Ferdinand was torture to
him; and, hastily disencumbering himself of his chains, he followed the
father and Rosabella from the prison. He sighed, however, and looked
back for a moment with regret ere he quitted the outer walls, for he
thought of Elvira. Rosabella's quick ear caught the sigh and her subtle
spirit divined its meaning; but this was not a moment to complain, and
stepping into their balloon they were soon out of sight of London. They
proceeded to a palace of Rosabella's, a few miles out of town, and
there, the following day, Edmund became her husband.
In the mean time, the excessive agitation Elvira experienced on the
day of Prince Ferdinand's trial brought on a return of her fever, and
it was several weeks ere she was sufficiently recovered to leave her
bed. When she did so, however, she was really shocked at the state in
which she found her kingdom. When she first began to reign, carried
away by the enthusiasm of the moment, she had taken too much of the
executive part of the government upon herself; and as her illness had
been too sudden to allow her to appoint a regency, no one knew who
ought to supply her place. All therefore was confusion and disorder,
and Elvira shrunk disgusted from the chaos before her. She had now no
Edmund to smooth the way for her, and the native energy of her mind
was gone. Pale, heart-broken, and dispirited, she felt languid and
incapable of the slightest exertion. What had formerly been a pleasure,
was now become an overwhelming burthen, and the weight of life seemed
insupportable.
She was now weary also of the fatigue necessary to carry on the plans
she had projected for the benefit of her people. At first, when all
seemed new and delightful, she had devoted herself entirely to their
interests: she had denied herself even the most trifling pleasures,
and scarcely allowed herself the time absolutely necessary for food
and rest. This was all very well, whilst her plans had the charm of
novelty, and were supported by passion. But now that novelty had worn
off, and they had assumed the dull wearisome appearance of duties--when
repeated disappointments had extinguished almost the hope of success,
and when she found her people expected, nay, demanded as a right, that
which she had originally granted them only as an especial mark of
favour, she discovered, though too late, the folly of the toil she had
imposed upon herself.
She now also discovered that improvement to be effectual must be
slow: that people don't like to be forced out of old habits, till
they have seen the effect of new ones proved by experience, and that
nothing is so difficult as to improve people against their wills.
Increase the resources of a country, throw money into the hands of the
middling and lower classes, and they will improve themselves; but, at
least, nine-tenths of a population will never suffer themselves to be
improved. Those only who have attempted this thankless and painful
office can fully estimate the sufferings of the unfortunate Elvira,
who, disappointed in all she undertook, found life become tasteless and
insipid, and was completely wretched,--though surrounded by all the
gifts of beauty, power, and fortune.
Every thing seemed to conspire to increase her misery. Those whom she
raised from indigence to affluence treated her with the most provoking
insolence and discontent. A plan which had been opposed by the lords
Gustavus de Montfort and Maysworth, and which she had persisted in
having tried, had completely failed, and the noble Lords had triumphed
in the most provoking manner in her disappointment. In short, every
thing went wrong; and Elvira, disgusted with the world, felt mortified
and disgusted with herself.
"How hard it is," thought she, frequently, as she tossed upon her
sleepless couch, "that I who, since my accession to the throne, have
devoted myself entirely to the interests of my subjects, should be thus
wretched; whilst tyrants, who live but to oppress, sleep quietly upon
their beds of down. Alas! why cannot I be as they are? Why cannot I
divest myself of reflection, and enjoy the pleasures that surround me?
But what pleasures can I enjoy? alas! the world presents nothing that
can interest me; an insipid vacuum spreads through creation; my heart
is cold and desolate; my affections are thrown back upon myself, and I
am miserable."
Thus raved Elvira, and, absorbed in painful meditations, she neglected
the duties of her station, and resigned herself to despair, whilst
the people, attributing her evident wretchedness to her grief for the
absence of Prince Ferdinand, who had left London immediately after his
trial, and had not since been heard of, became every hour more and more
discontented with their Queen.
In the mean time, the marriage of Lord Edmund, though not openly
avowed, was generally suspected; and the party of Rosabella gained
strength every day, whilst mysterious rumours were whispered from mouth
to mouth, and divers hints given that many knew more than they chose to
say; though from the immense number of these mystery-mongers it seemed,
as in the celebrated scene in the Barber of Seville, that every one
was in the secret, though nobody was to divulge it. The listlessness
of Elvira soon produced the most serious effects. A kingdom without
a government, or rather a government without a chief, cannot long go
on well. It is like a ship at sea without a pilot, and it must founder
upon the first rock that impedes its course.
When the vigour of government is from any cause relaxed, there are
always plenty of persons ready to take advantage of the opportunity
afforded them to commit evil with impunity; and crimes of every
description multiplied so fast under the negligent sway of Elvira, that
the people became clamorous in their complaints. But to whom could
they address themselves? The Queen was rarely visible--Lord Edmund
was gone, and the lords of the council were too busy _talking_ about
the interests of the people to think of _really attending_ to them;
whilst the duke and Sir Ambrose seemed too old to be likely to trouble
themselves by intermeddling with an affair of state. To them, however,
the people looked as a dernier resort; and as it seemed indelicate
to apply to the duke when the person they complained of was his own
daughter, they entreated Sir Ambrose to present a petition to the
Queen in their behalf.
The worthy baronet acceded to their request, and though almost bent to
the earth by age and misery, prepared once more to appear at court.
The loss of his beloved Edmund had affected the old man deeply: he
considered his flight before trial as a confession of guilt, and the
thought of disgrace weighed down his grey hairs with sorrow to the
grave. The distress of the people, however, roused him from the apathy
into which he was fast falling; and when he waited upon the Queen, it
was with all the energy of his former years.
The Queen received him sullenly. "I cannot help it Sir Ambrose," said
she; "I am sorry for my people, but I cannot do any thing to relieve
them. I feel that I am fast sinking into the tomb; do not then disturb
my last moments by fruitless solicitations."
"Last moments!" cried Sir Ambrose, indignantly; "rally your energies,
and you may live half a century. You give way to a morbid sensibility
that oppresses you; and, because some of your hopes have been
disappointed, you shrink from the duties that you have imposed upon
yourself, and talk of your last moments. Shame! shame! Elvira! rouse
yourself from this lethargy, and be indeed a Queen. Remember, that
though Nature has ordinarily denied your sex the power of triumphing
in the field, she has yet left a far greater conquest for you to
achieve--the conquest of yourself; for it is far more glorious to
subdue the wayward desires of the human heart, than to lead scores of
monarchs captives in your chains. Struggle then with your feelings:
conquer those fatal passions that threaten to destroy you; show
yourself worthy of your crown, and be again the Elvira for whom even in
her childhood, I anticipated greatness."
"It is too late," interrupted the Queen impatiently--"it is now too
late. Urge me no more, Sir Ambrose, or you will drive me to despair."
Sir Ambrose was provoked at her obstinacy, and a pause ensued, which
was broken by a tumultuous noise and shouting. It was the people at
the gates of the palace, who, impatient at the length of Sir Ambrose's
stay, were now becoming clamorous for an answer.
"What shall I say to them?" asked the baronet.
"Tell them I deny their suit!" replied the Queen. "Away, away, away! I
would be quiet; go without reply; I will hear no more; I will not be
tormented:" and waving her hand for him to depart, she hurried to her
chamber. Finding there was no alternative, Sir Ambrose was compelled
to appear before the people and acquaint them with the will of their
Sovereign. The tumult became more violent as he spoke. An English mob
is proverbially impetuous; and now their rage rose beyond control.
"The Queen! the Queen!" they shouted; "we will see the Queen!" The
crowd increased every moment--the multitude heaved in tremendous waves
like the rolling billows of the sea, and the hum of thousands of human
voices filled the air. They threatened to storm the palace. A man in
complete armour, his face entirely concealed by his vizor, headed
their attempts; the outer gates were forced, and the throng rushed
tumultuously into the court of the palace.
All there was confusion: soldiers might have been summoned, and the
place defended; but there was no one to give orders; and the servants
ran to and fro in the greatest possible distress, without knowing
either where they were going, or what they intended doing. In the
midst of this bustle, Elvira sate burying her face in her hands, and
obstinately refusing to take the slightest interest in the scene.
The door opened violently, and Sir Ambrose and some of her principal
servants rushed in. "For God's sake, save yourself!" cried they. "If
your Majesty were safe, we care not for ourselves."
"Fly!" cried Sir Ambrose, throwing himself upon his knees before
her, his white hair streaming almost to the ground; "for God's sake,
fly!" It was too late, however, then, had the Queen been disposed to
obey him; for, as he spoke, the outer door burst open with tremendous
violence; the palace seemed to shake to its foundation with the shock;
and in an instant the chamber was filled by the infuriated populace.
"Seize the Queen, but do not injure her!" cried a voice that thrilled
through every nerve of Sir Ambrose. "Spare the old man; do not hurt
a hair of his head." Sir Ambrose looked up; the voice came from the
man in armour; but it was the voice of Edmund. A crowd of overwhelming
thoughts rushed through his mind, and, overpowered by their weight, he
sank senseless upon the ground. "Take him away!" cried Edmund; (for it
was indeed he;) "take him away! but see that ye hurt him not: he dies
that injures him."
"Edmund!" cried Elvira, struck also by his voice--
"To prison with her!" exclaimed he.
"To prison, Edmund! do you doom your Queen to prison? Is it thus you
treat your Sovereign?"
"I own no Sovereign here but Rosabella."
"But, by what right can she be called your Sovereign?"
"By that which made you Queen. The people's voice. It lies with them to
crown or to dethrone!"
"Oh Edmund! mercy!"
"Away with her! I'll hear no more."
The guards seized upon the unfortunate Queen, and, in spite of her
entreaties, hurried her away. Edmund did not trust himself to look at
her. For a moment he hid his face in his hands; then rousing himself,
he exclaimed, "Now to proclaim the Queen!" The people followed him
with shouts of applause, and before evening Edmund and Rosabella were
unanimously acknowledged as King and Queen of England.