Father Morris, when Abelard and Mrs. Russel confessed to him the following morning the strange spectre they had witnessed, treated the whole as the mere vision of their heated imaginations, and refusing to listen to any of their surmises respecting it, prepared to attend the Queen, who, finding herself sufficiently recovered to be able to attend to the duties of religion, had, from the general reputation of his superior sanctity, sent for him to confess her. Her Majesty, indeed, seemed rapidly improving, and the hopes of Edmund reviving with her health, he passed every hour he could abstract from the duties of his station at the feet of his adored Elvira, his love for whom seemed increased by the imminence of the danger he had just escaped, of losing her for ever.
In this manner several days had passed, and the strange visit of the Mummy, and the accident of the Queen, had already taken their place on the shelf with the other évènemens passés of the day; when one morning, whilst Sir Ambrose was dressing, he was startled by an earnest message from the Duke of Cornwall, entreating him to come to him without delay. Sir Ambrose immediately obeyed the summons, and found the Duke walking up and down his study in a state of the greatest agitation, which Father Morris was vainly endeavouring to tranquillize.
“Oh, my beloved friend,” exclaimed the duke, springing forward and grasping the baronet’s hand the moment he saw him approach: “my dear Sir Ambrose, Claudia is no more!”
“Dead!” cried Sir Ambrose involuntarily looking at Father Morris, whose aspect, how ever, still preserved only its usual cold and statue-like appearance. “Are you sure she is dead?—I thought she was better.”
“So we all did,” said the Duke: “but alas! we deceived ourselves, for Father Morris has just seen her expire. Oh! where is Edmund?—why is he not with you?—what will become of him? It will destroy him to lose Elvira: and I, too, that have felt so proud in the expectation of his becoming my son-in-law, oh, it will break my heart!”
“Oh!” cried Father Murphy, who was also present; “and if that’s the case, why don’t you let Rosabella take the crown at once, and make no more fuss about it.”
“And yet,” continued the duke, “I cannot bear that Elvira should be deprived of her right, she would so become a crown; and with her inflexible sense of justice, and desire for improvement, she would do so much good, that I should not feel justified in depriving the country of such a sovereign.”
“Thus,” said Father Morris, smiling, “do we deceive ourselves; you are ambitious whilst you think that you are only just. Believe me, if you consult Elvira’s real happiness, you will not impose upon her the troublesome duties of a crown; she will make a better wife than a queen; for her gentle nature is less fitted to command than to obey. Rosabella has more firmness.”
“I do not agree with you, Father,” said Sir Ambrose; “in my opinion Elvira is infinitely better fitted to be a queen than Rosabella, for her passions are more under the control of reason;”
“That is to say,” resumed the monk, sneeringly, “they have not yet been called into play”
“What do you mean, Father?’” began the duke.
“Nothing that could give you offence, my Lord,” returned the priest. “Disgusted myself with the world, I naturally thought the princess most likely to find happiness where I seek it myself—viz. in a life of quiet and retirement.”
“Enough,” said the duke: “but where is Edmund? Let us seek him; no doubt he is with Elvira:—poor things! we must spoil their billing and cooing.”
Edmund was with Elvira, and was passionately urging his suit, whilst she, engaged with her embroidery frame, listened with a half abstracted mind, and Emma duteously waited behind her chair.
“You do not love me,” said he, “or you could not answer with such provoking coldness.”
“You are so unreasonable, Edmund. I have already told you I have no idea of that passionate overwhelming love you appear to feel, it absolutely terrifies me, and I am sure it is not natural to my character.—(This silk is too dark, Emma)—and so, Edmund, if you feel you cannot be happy with such affection as it is in my power to bestow, we had better determine at once to separate.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Edmund, striking his forehead violently with his clenched hand; “how coldly you talk of our separation!”
“What can I do? I try every thing in my power to please you. (Emma give me my scissors.) But since you will not hear reason——”
“Reason!” cried Edmund fiercely, seizing her arm, and then letting it go again; “If you talk of reason you will drive me distracted!”
“You quite terrify me with your violence, Edmund,” said Elvira, rising, and preparing to quit the room.
“Oh stay! stay, my adored Elvira!” exclaimed Lord Edmund, throwing himself upon his knees and catching her hand; “for Heaven’s sake, stay! pardon my impetuosity—frown upon me, treat me with coldness, disdain, or contempt, but do not, do not leave me.”
“I do not know what you wish; I have repeatedly told you I am ready to become your wife whenever our parents think fit; and that I will do every thing in my power to make you happy. Do you call that coldness?”
“I do—I do indeed: freezing, insulting coldness. Oh, Elvira! I would rather see you spurn me—hear you declare you hated me, or know that you doomed me to destruction, than hear you speak of our marriage in that calm, unvaried tone.”
“How unreasonable you are!” said Elvira, “as Henry Seymour says—you do not understand my character in the least.”
“Henry Seymour!” cried Edmund fiercely: “how dare he pass an opinion upon my conduct? He shall account for his insolent interference.”
“Oh no! no!” exclaimed Elvira, turning pale with terror; “I’m sure he meant no harm. For Heaven’s sake, Edmund! my dear Edmund,” continued she, earnestly laying her hand upon his arm—she paused—Edmund gazed upon her intently—she became confused, and added in a faltering voice, “do not hurt him, Edmund!”
Edmund sighed deeply: “You shall be obeyed,” said he.
At this moment a slight tap at the door announced the arrival of the duke and his friends.
“So, so,” said the duke, “we have found you, have we? But you must take your leave of tender scenes for the future.”
“What do you mean?” asked Edmund.
“The Queen is dead,” said Sir Ambrose.
The glowing countenance of Edmund turned of a ghastly paleness; and his livid lips quivered, as he leaned against the window for support.
“Assist him!” cried the duke. “He will faint! Don’t distress yourself, Edmund; the death of Claudia shall make no alteration in your prospects.”
“I am better,” said Edmund faintly, attempting to smile, and waving off all assistance; “’Twas but for a moment: the suddenness of the shock overcame me: I thought the Queen was better.”
“She was supposed so,” returned the duke; “but it seems she had some internal malady her physicians were not aware of. An inward bruise, I believe. But don’t make yourself unhappy about it, Edmund; I cannot bear to see you wretched. Let Rosabella take the crown, and think no more about it.”
“Your Grace wrongs me,” said Edmund, his fine countenance glowing with the exalted feelings of his soul. “However I may suffer from the violence of my feelings, I can never permit them to interfere with my sense of duty. Elvira has a right to ascend the throne, and if my exertions can ensure her success, she shall be Queen.”
“Thou art a brave lad!” cried the duke. “And will you really try to secure the election of Elvira, when you know, by so doing, you will deprive yourself of her for ever?”
“I shall do my duty,” said Lord Edmund, pressing his lips firmly together, as though to suppress his feelings. Father Morris looked at him from under his over-shadowing cowl with a kind of sardonic Smile, which seemed to say “You speak well, but let us see how you will act.”
“My noble Edmund!” murmured Sir Ambrose, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Elvira’s eyes thanked her lover for his disinterestedness; whilst the glow which flushed her cheeks, betrayed, that a deeper emotion than joy at the flattering prospect opened before her, swelled in her bosom. “Elvira!” said Lord Edmund, gazing upon her earnestly, as though he would penetrate the inmost recesses of her bosom. “What are your wishes? Do not hesitate to declare them, for alas! much hangs upon your words.”
Elvira blushed, and cast her eyes upon the ground, whilst the rapid changes of her expressive countenance bespoke the agitation of her mind; Lord Edmund comprehended but too well the meaning of her silence, and he sighed deeply. “It is enough,” said he, in a mournful tone; “then the die is cast” He paused a few moments, whilst his friends, though they looked at him with the deepest commiseration, respected his emotion too much to venture to interrupt it: then rousing himself, he hastily brushed a tear from his eye, and exclaimed, “How weak is human nature! I know my duty, and I will perform it; but yet—Oh Elvira!”
“Compose yourself, my beloved Edmund,” said his father; “tomorrow you will be more calm.”
“Oh, talk not of tomorrow!” replied Edmund; “ today is the season for action. I will instantly assemble my friends: I know the army is devoted to me. A council of state will be chosen to direct the kingdom during the interregnum. I must be one of its members: some weeks will elapse before the election can, I think, take place?”
“Three months is the time fixed,” said the duke: “as you know the votes of all the people are to be collected, and that, with such a population as ours, will be no trifle: to be sure, it is the deputies that are to do the business, but then it will take some time to elect them.”
“When the founder of the present dynasty ordained her successor should be chosen by the votes of the whole people,” said Sir Ambrose; “she wisely recollected the difficulty that must arise from collecting their votes individually, and directed they should elect deputies; but when she ordered that every ten thousand men throughout the kingdom should choose a deputy of their own rank and station to come to London to represent them, she did not calculate upon the immensity of our present population, nor think of the evils the presence of such a disorderly body of men must bring upon the capital.”
“Yet any attempt to reduce their number, would inevitably overturn the government,” observed Father Morris; “for as it is the only act of freedom the people have long been permitted to enjoy, they will be proportionably tenacious of it.”
“And the majority of these deputies is to decide the election,” said Edmund, musing; “then our business must be to secure that majority. Think you that any good can be done by endeavouring to procure the return of those who are disposed to be favourable to us?”
“Very little,” returned Father Morris, to whom this observation was addressed; “for the lower classes, from their conceit and pedantry, are extremely difficult to manage: though their deputies may possibly be more tractable, as, notwithstanding the ordinance of the Queen, they will probably be more polished, and less learned. The lower classes will be ill able to spare the time necessary to become deputies, whilst the country gentlemen will be delighted to obtain something to do.”
“We must be prompt,” said the duke, “at all events, I don’t like delay.”
“True!” replied Edmund, starting from a reverie into which he had fallen; “I must get myself nominated a member of the council, and we must arrange our other plans afterwards.”
The party now separated, and Elvira, left alone with her companion, indulged in dreams of futurity. “I am sorry for the death of Claudia,” said she, “but I never loved her; she was so cold and uninteresting—such a mere matter-of-fact being—she had no soul, Emma, and how can one love a being so totally passionless and insipid? I wonder,” continued she, after a short pause, “what Henry Seymour will think of this?”
Emma smiled, “Poor Lord Edmund!” said she.
“I know what you would say,” returned Elvira; “I am sorry for him, and I admire his conduct extremely. There is really some thing very noble about him; and though I do not love him, it is only from the fault in my character: I am incapable of feeling strong passions—yet I pity him. Poor Lord Edmund!”
Emma again smiled, for she thought differently, and she saw, in spite of this pity and admiration, that in a week poor Lord Edmund would be forgotten.
In the mean time, Rosabella’s mind was a prey to the most violent passions. A billet from Father Morris had informed her of the death of her cousin, and of the designs brooding against her interests. “I will be revenged,” said she; “I will show them mine is not a soul to dwell upon impotent grief. I will assemble my friends; my father’s party was strong in the state; it cannot be quite extinct. Let me see, to whom shall I apply?”
“The Lords Noodle and Doodle (both of ancient families) were devoted to your father, and were under great obligations to him when they were young,” observed Marianne.
“But they are such fools!” said Rosabella.
“They are well connected,” returned her confidant; “and power does not always attend upon talent.”
“True, and, as they are so weak, I may guide them as I will.”
“Do not rely upon that: folly is generally obstinate; and though there may be hopes of convincing a man of sense, fools will always have their own way.”
“How then are they to be dealt with?”
“By letting them fancy they direct, when, in fact, they are directed. Apply to Lords Noodle and Doodle, as though for advice, more than assistance. Consult them how you ought to act, and suggest the advantages that will arise from your possessing the throne so artfully, that they may fancy what you say the dictates of their own minds, and then, if they advise any course, they in some measure pledge themselves to support you, if you pursue it.”
“I do not doubt obtaining their sanction, and that of Lord Gustavus de Montfort; but I wish I could also obtain the countenance of Dr. Hardman, for he has many friends, and some talents,” said Rosabella; “and I own I do not feel satisfied to trust myself entirely in the hands of any of the others.”
“Talk of liberty and public spirit,” replied Marianne; “promise a redress of grievances, and a radical reform of all evils, and you may secure Dr. Hardman. Yet he is not a fool; nay, he is even shrewd, penetrating, and persevering; but as lunatics are generally mad only upon one subject, so even men of sense have generally some prevailing folly, and his is that of being thought of importance in the state. Indeed, in my opinion, there are very few human beings whom we may not make subservient to our views, if we have but penetration enough to discover their weak sides, and art enough to avail ourselves of the discovery.”
“The world is very much obliged to you for the high opinion you have of it,” returned Rosabella; “however, I like your advice, and will pursue it. But do you think Father Morris will approve?”
“Oh, I will answer for him,” interrupted Marianne.
“I will then write to each of the three lords,” continued Rosabella; “and appoint a time and place for an interview with each. I must attend to the doctor afterwards.”
“Beware,” said Marianne; “you have a difficult game to play. The old proverb says, it is well to have two strings to one’s bow; but four, I fear, will be too much for you to manage.”
“Fear me not,” cried her mistress; “impetuous as I generally am, I can be cautious when I see occasion.”
In pursuance of her resolution, Rosabella wrote to the noblemen, whose assistance she wished to secure; and receiving favourable answers, the hour of twelve that night was fixed upon for a secret meeting between Lord Gustavus and herself upon the subject. The utmost secrecy was requisite, as Rosabella knew the fiery temper of her uncle, and felt confident, that if he discovered her plans before they were ripe for execution, his vengeance would have no bounds. She wished, therefore, to ascertain her strength privately; and, as she was aware a fruitless struggle would only involve her in ruin, she resolved not to betray her intentions till there appeared at least a fair prospect of success.
For this reason, when the duke informed her of the death of the Queen, she affected only the surprise she might naturally be supposed to feel at the suddenness of the event; and appeared absorbed in grief for the loss of her cousin, without seeming even to think of the consequences likely to ensue to herself; in short, she acted her part so well, that the duke was completely deceived; and when he returned to Sir Ambrose, after his conference with her, he exclaimed, “We had no occasion to alarm ourselves, or give ourselves so much trouble: I don’t believe Rosabella even thinks about the throne; and I am sure she doesn’t care a straw whether she has it or not. I am even confident, from what I have seen to-night, that I have only to express my wishes in favour of Elvira, to have her resign all pretensions immediately.”
Sir Ambrose smiled and shook his head incredulously, and the duke was provoked; for, like all weak, obstinate men, he was extremely tenacious of the infallibility of his judgment. “Why do you shake your head?” said he; “do you disbelieve my assertion?”
“I do not disbelieve your assertion; I only doubt your penetration.”
“And why do you doubt that?”
“Because I know Rosabella.”
“Then you think her indifference affected?”
“I think it too great to be real. Moderation is not by any means a characteristic of Rosabella. She is ever in extremes; and when she appears otherwise, depend upon it she is only acting a part, and she has some end in view that she hopes to gain by it.”
“Well, let her be as sly as she will, she cannot deceive me! I’ll watch her! I’ll defy her to think, walk, look, or speak, without my knowing of it; and if I find she nourishes even the thought of rivalling Elvira, she shall quit my house immediately. I will encourage no vipers.”
Sir Ambrose smiled inwardly at the mistaken confidence of his friend in his own judgment. Thinking it useless, however, to irritate him by farther opposition, he endeavoured to turn the conversation upon another subject. “It is strange,” said he, “how frequently I have been thinking of that Mummy. If there be no deception in the business, it is a perfect miracle!”
“And what deception can there be?” returned the duke, peevishly: “you think yourself so very wise, and that you know so much better than other people, only because you are always suspecting something wrong. Now, for my part, I think, as poor Dr. Entwerfen used to say ‘Incredulity is often as much the offspring of folly, as credulity!’ ”
“I wonder what has become of the doctor and Edric? for, ill as Edric behaved, he is still my son; and I own I should like to know where he is.”
“Oh! I don’t think you have the least occasion in the world to trouble yourself about him. Depend upon it, he and his mad friend, Doctor Entwerfen are rambling about Egypt, and are happier now than ever they were before in their lives.”
“If you are right,” said Sir Ambrose, “and they are now in Egypt; as they have lost their balloon, they may be in want even of necessaries.”
“And it is very right they should be so,” replied the duke; “what business had they to go away?”
The hours of this eventful day rolled on heavily with Rosabella; the important consequences of the struggle she was about to engage in forcibly impressed her mind. Ruin must inevitably ensue if she failed, and even if she succeeded, her path seemed strewed with thorns. The anxiety natural to the intrigues she was about to be involved in, also hung about her. Though haughty and vindictive, Rosabella was not naturally deceitful. Indeed the very violence and impetuosity of her passions rendered it difficult for her to appear otherwise than she really was. The secret intercourse, however, which, through the intervention of Marianne, she had long maintained with Father Morris, had somewhat practised her in concealment, but it was still repugnant to her nature. She was now anxiously expecting a visit from the reverend father, and as he was generally remarkably punctual to his appointments, his non-appearance filled her with a sensation of dread; and a presentiment of evil crept over her, that she tried in vain to overcome.
“It is long past the hour the Father mentioned,” said Marianne, after a long pause, during which she had been listening with the utmost attention to every sound. “I cannot imagine the cause of his absence. Surely our plans have not been discovered.” And as she spoke, her blanched cheeks and livid lips betrayed the deep interest she took in his fate.
“How mournfully that heavy bell clangs in my ear!” said Rosabella; “it seems to ring the death-knell of my hopes. A gloomy foreboding hangs upon my mind, and undefinable horrors rise in dim perspective before me.”
“Hark!” cried Marianne, her sense of hearing sharpened by anxiety; “he comes! yes, yes, he comes,” added she, after a short pause; and in a few seconds Rosabella heard the Father’s well-known step. “You are very late,” said she, as he entered the room.
“Good God! what is the matter?” asked Marianne, as the haggard, agitated features of the priest met her eye. “You look like one who has held communion with infernal spirits.”
“You say right, Marianne,” replied the Father, in a deep hollow tone; “I have, indeed, conversed with spirits—for never could those fearful eyes which still seem to glare upon me, belong to mortal.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rosabella.
“I have again seen the Mummy! that fearful spectre from the tomb. Even now he crossed my path and bade me beware, or I should become his slave. I am not timid, but my very soul recoiled from the hideous aspect of that awful being; the cerecloths of the grave are still wrapped round him, his fearful eyes glare with unearthly lustre, and his deep sepulchral voice thrills through every nerve.”
“Are you certain it is no deception?” asked Marianne.
“Deception!” returned the priest, “even I trembled, Marianne, when I gazed upon the countenance of that tremendous being, and read there the traces of fierce and ungoverned passions, wild and destructive in their course as the raging whirlwind. Even I dreaded the influence he might exert upon our destinies, and shuddered at the thought of such a creature’s being released from the fetters of the tomb, and sent back as a destroying spirit upon earth. The eternal gloom which hangs upon his brow, seems to bespeak a fallen angel, for such is the deadly hate that must have animated the rebellious spirits when expelled from heaven. His look is terrific; and my blood froze in my veins at his horrid laugh, which seemed to ring in my ears like the mockery of fiends when they have involved a human being inextricably in their toils.”
“It may be a fiend,” murmured Marianne, in a low whisper. At this moment, the clock struck twelve.
Rosabella started at the sound. “Lord Gustavus will expect me,” cried she.
“Go, then,” replied the priest, “with Marianne. I will follow presently.”
With trembling limbs, beating heart, and all the trepidation which the consciousness of guilt cannot fail to give even to the firmest mind, Rosabella and Marianne proceeded to the terrace, where they found Lord Gustavus waiting to receive them.
“You may think it strange, my Lord,” said the agitated princess, as she advanced, leaving her confidant at the gate which led from the garden, “that I should desire this meeting.”
“By no means—by no means,” said Lord Gustavus, condescendingly. “Indeed, I have already had some conversation with an emissary of your’s, that has let me into your views; and I find from him your ideas upon several important subjects are so clear, so just, so sensible, and so accordant with my own, that I feel disposed to become your partisan, even before you utter a syllable.”
“And who is this emissary?” asked Rosabella, unable to account for a reception so unexpectedly gracious, and alarmed at what she feared a premature exposure of her plans.
“Father Morris,” replied Lord Gustavus, alarmed in his turn, lest he should have unguardedly committed himself: “he told me he was an accredited agent of yours, and even induced me to—to——”
“Your Lordship need not hesitate,” returned Rosabella; “I was not aware that Father Morris had seen you, or I should not have expressed surprise.”
“I have been induced then,” said Lord Gustavus, “to bring with me two friends of mine. Lord Maysworth and Dr. Hardman. They are fully convinced of the justness of your ideas respecting retrenchment and reform; and they think your plans of curtailing the expenditure, by throwing all the power of the state into the hands of a few trustworthy individuals, upon whom you may thoroughly rely, (such as them or myself, for instance) most excellent.”
Poor Rosabella was here completely puzzled, as she had not the slightest idea of what plan Lord Gustavus could possibly allude to; nor indeed was it probable she should, it being entirely the offspring of the creative brain of Father Morris, invented by him solely for the purpose of the winning of the noble lords, to whom he had confided it, over to her party. Rosabella was naturally quick, and, possessing abundantly that very unexplainable, but well-known faculty, designated “tact,” she instantly divined the motive that had induced Father Morris to attribute this scheme to her, and determined to avoid, if possible, betraying her ignorance.
Lord Maysworth and Dr. Hardman, who had remained at a little distance, and whom the agitation of Rosabella had prevented her before seeing, now advanced; and after having been presented to the princess, the former assured her of his devotion to her cause.
“I admire your ideas exceedingly,” said he; “ and particularly your intention of removing Lord Edmund from the command of the army, and placing an older and more experienced person in his stead.”
“Lord Edmund!” cried Rosabella, thrown off her guard by the sudden mention of that name.
“Father Morris told me so,” resumed Lord Maysworth, in surprise.
“And he told you truly,” interrupted Rosabella. “Father Morris is worthy of all the confidence I can repose in him; in fact, he knows my inmost thoughts; but I was not aware that he had seen you.”