"Ungrateful woman," thought he, "to treat me thus! Does she not owe every thing to me? I could bear her coldness; I could resign her to a throne; but the idea of her loving another drives me to distraction!—Curses on that fiend! It must be by his infernal arts that Ferdinand has triumphed. The cold, the chaste Elvira could never give her love thus—thus almost unsolicited, and at first sight if it were not the work of magic. By Heaven, I would risk my soul for vengeance on that demon!"
As he spoke, his eyes fell upon a thicket near him, and he fancied he saw the figure of a man, half obscured however by the mist, emerge from its gloomy recesses. He gazed intently, and the figure glided slowly on with catlike, creeping steps. The mind of Edmund was worked up to frenzy—he almost fancied a demon had appeared obedient to his wish, to receive his pledge, and work his bidding. "Speak!" cried he, in a voice that sounded fearfully amidst the surrounding stillness—"Speak! art thou a demon, or a mortal?"
All was silent: the figure glided on; and Lord Edmund, oppressed by supernatural terrors, and shuddering at the sound of his own voice, could bear no more; he darted upon the figure, and grasping it roughly, he exclaimed, "Man or devil, I fear thee not, and thus will I grapple with thee."
"Gently, my son," replied the well-known voice of Father Morris; "in what have I offended you?"
"Pardon, holy father," returned Edmund "I knew you not—I knew not what I did—my passion blinded me."
"And what has caused this passion? The mind of Edmund is too noble to be lightly moved."
"Oh! talk not of the nobleness of my mind, father; I feel I am but a poor weak worm. Nobleness belongs to God alone; 'tis blasphemy to apply the term to man."
"Tell me your grievances. They must, I am sure, be great, or they would not thus affect you. It is my holy office to console affliction. Speak then, my son; for, remember, that though joy is doubled by being partaken, grief is lessened by being shared—and woe robbed of half its bitterness."
"I have little to confess, father. I was weak and foolish; but Elvira—"
"And are you astonished at a woman's fickleness? Light as the eider down, and unstable as the changing wind, inconstancy is natural to the sex—they crave incessantly for novelty;—and as vanity is their only real passion, if that be gratified they ask no more."
"And has not Elvira's vanity been gratified even to satiety? Have I not idolized, worshipped her? Was it not my power that made her what she is? And is this my reward? To be scorned, deserted, laughed at, and for what? A stranger!—a boy!—my prisoner!"
"Whom do you mean?" asked the friar.
"Prince Ferdinand," returned Edmund.
"Impossible!" cried Father Morris, starting with well-feigned astonishment. "Elvira cannot, surely, love Prince Ferdinand! And yet, now I recollect, I saw her talking to him, even now, with an appearance of deep interest, when I passed through her splendid chambers."
"Damnation!" exclaimed Lord Edmund vehemently, driven to distraction by this speech; for, strange to tell, though we may be certain of the reality of our own sufferings, they always seem to come with double poignancy when we hear them related by another.
"Calm yourself, my son," said Father Morris in his silky tones, eyeing him with about as much compassion as an angler feels for the writhing of a worm upon his hook. "These bursts of passion are unworthy of you."
"Oh, father!" cried Edmund, softened almost into tears, "you know not how I loved that woman. Your grave, serious feelings, disciplined by the restraint of a cloister, mortified by your renunciation of all earthly pleasures, can form no idea of the depth and fierceness of mine. Your passions, father, are dead within you; subdued by holy penitence to calmness; but mine rage with the fury of a volcano, and destroy me! O that my fond attachment, my long devoted services, my adoration, should be thus rewarded. Yes—my adoration, for I have adored her, father! I worshipped her like a goddess; and though I doted on her charms, and would have endured unheard-of torments to have been blest with their possession, yet, did I not sacrifice my hopes?—did I not relinquish the treasure when just within my grasp, because her happiness was dearer to me than my own? And now to see her lavish her favours on that boy! She smiled upon him, father, and he dared to take her hand and press it to his lips. I saw him kiss it, not with the calm respect of a kneeling subject, but with the fervour, the impassioned ardour of a lover; and then he looked at her—curses on the thought!—and she did not reprove; but, casting down her eyes, softly blushed consent. Damnation! I cannot endure it."
"Passion, my son, entails its own punishment. You see every thing with a jaundiced eye. Elvira's nature is gentle and yielding; she feared to hurt his feelings by her harshness. 'Tis but the natural consequence of that very softness you so often have admired. Why should you quarrel with it now? 'tis still the same that charmed you, save that now it is extended to another, and will be soon, no doubt, to all the world. Elvira has been educated in retirement, and, seeing only yourself and Edric, you thought her conduct was the effect of partiality for you, when it was in fact but her natural manner. She is now upon a larger theatre; and you must expect to see myriads of kneeling victims worship her beauty, and pay homage at her feet! And do you suppose she will be displeased at their attention? No; she is far too gentle; she has no firmness; and the same submission she now pays to you, she will, if you offend her, easily transfer to another. She is not formed to govern; she would obey and be happy; but the weight of government would overwhelm her if she were left alone to sustain it. Shake off, then, these selfish feelings, and be again yourself. You have often said, you only wished her happiness; and if that be the case, even if she should really love Prince Ferdinand, you ought to rejoice to see her in his arms."
"Sooner would I perish, sooner would I involve all in one universal ruin! But it is impossible; she scarcely knows him."
"And if it were so, still you would be wrong to blame Elvira for what, in fact, she cannot help. Her yielding softness is the defect of her character."
"Fool that I was, that very softness caught me, and my fond heart fell captive to its chains. But it was folly, infatuation! I see my error; Rosabella has more character. Shecanlove."
Lord Edmund crossed his arms upon his breast and was soon lost in areverie, which Father Morris was careful not to interrupt, but which was broken by the approach of Trevors, his lordship's aide-de-camp and secretary.
"What do you want?" asked Lord Edmund sternly.
"I came to seek your Lordship. I feared you were unwell, as I missed your Lordship from the party."
"You missed me!" repeated Lord Edmund bitterly. "Youmissed me! and did no one else discover my absence? Was it so marked that my servant could observe it, and yet no one else?"
"Did not the Queen inquire for Lord Edmund?" asked Father Morris.
"I did not hear her Majesty," replied Trevors.
"How was she engaged? what was she doing?" demanded Lord Edmund.
"She was sitting, talking to Prince Ferdinand, my Lord."
Lord Edmund gnashed his teeth together, grinding them with fury, and rushed back to the house without speaking, whilst Trevors followed at an humble distance.
"He has it," cried Father Morris triumphantly—"he has it, and he is mine for ever."
Several days elapsed from this period before Elvira again saw Lord Edmund. She was surprised at his absence; as indeed he was so interwoven in her schemes and plans, that nothing went on well without him.
"Will your Majesty have the goodness to affix the royal seal to this ordinance?" asked Lord Gustavus one morning.
"I don't know," replied Elvira. "I can't tell what to do. I wish Lord Edmund were here."
"He may soon be sent for," said Lord Gustavus pompously. "Though, with all due deference to your Majesty's better judgment, it does not appear to me that his presence is exactly requisite."
Lord Edmund, however, was summoned, and he came. But oh! how changed since Elvira had seen him last! His face looked pale and thin, his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes hollow and heavy, whilst his deep voice sounded hoarse and unnatural. Passion had passed through his soul, and withered as it went. Elvira's heart smote her as she gazed upon him.
"You have been ill, Edmund!" said she, in tones of melting softness. "Why was I not informed? Surely you could not think I would willingly neglect you? Could you judge so harshly of me?"
The firm breast of Edmund softened as she spoke, and tears swam in his eyes as he struggled to reply with calmness—yes, tears; the brave, the warlike Edmund, whose strength of mind and firmness had resisted unequalled dangers, now trembled before a woman.
"You must have some advice," continued Elvira. "Dr. Coleman, Dr. Hardman, can you not prescribe for your patient?"
"His Lordship appears feverish," said Dr. Coleman. "No doubt he has rested ill."
"Yes—yes," rejoined Dr. Hardman, with a malignant smile. "His Lordship's eyes betray his want of rest."
"I have been slightly indisposed," said Lord Edmund, rallying his spirits to speak: "but I am better. Is there any thing in which my services can be useful to your Majesty?"
"Her Majesty wishes you to inspect this bill," replied Lord Gustavus solemnly, "before she gives it her royal assent."
Lord Edmund's eyes sparkled. "Then she still thinks my opinion of importance," thought he.
"Lord Edmund's illness, I hope, is passed," said Dr. Hardman maliciously; "for he certainly looks better even since he came into the room."
Lord Edmund was better; a sudden revulsion of feeling had taken place within him, and hope was again illumined in his bosom. Passion again rushed through his soul. "She must, she shall, be mine," thought he, whilst fire flashed from his eyes. "The hated law shall be repealed. Difficulties only increase the value of the prize, and they vanish before a determined spirit. What! shall I, before whose arm whole nations have fallen vanquished, shrink like a coward from the first trouble that assails me! Oh, no! I will not be so weak; opposition shall only animate my courage. Treasures would be scarcely worth acceptance if they lay beneath one's feet—a brave man spurns an easy victory! I will exert my powers, and Elvira shall be mine."
Father Morris was at the levee, and he watched with anxious eyes the fluctuations in Edmund's expressive countenance. "Perdition seize her beauty!" muttered he; "with one look she undoes whole months of labour. But he shall yet be mine—Cheops has sworn he shall,—and Rosabella shall be Queen. Be the Mummy mortal or fiend, he is resistless; he has unbounded power over the human heart, and what he wills must be accomplished."
Some weeks elapsed, during which Lord Edmund, restored to his former influence in the government, laboured assiduously to prepare the minds of the people for abolishing the law that prevented the marriage of the Queen. With the greatest care he endeavoured to make Elvira popular. For this purpose he persuaded her to remit those burthens that weighed most heavily upon the people, replacing them by taxes levied in a more indirect way; for the mass of a population seldom grumbles at taxation, unless it see the trifles for which it pays: men do not regard the giving double the real value of a commodity, a tenth part so much, as paying even a small direct sum for the use of any of the common necessaries of life.
By judiciously acting upon this principle, Edmund made himself adored; and whispers even were buzzed about, lamenting that he was not King. This was the point to which Edmund had wished to bring the people; and he pursued his plan by supporting the poor against the rich, and rigorously punishing the magistrates or officers of justice who attempted to oppress the people. The multitude generally hate those entrusted with the execution of the laws, perhaps upon the same principle as the bleeding culprit abhors the sight of the whip that has flogged him; and their natural conceit and presumption were flattered by the attention paid to their complaints; till, by his judicious management, Lord Edmund found that he had obtained the entire devotion of the mob, and could wield them at his pleasure.
Time rolled on, and winter had already wrapped its frozen mantle round the world, when one day Father Morris abruptly entered the apartment of Rosabella. "It is all over," cried he, as he threw himself in despair upon a couch. "Edmund has obtained the consent of the people for the Queen to marry, and no doubt in a few weeks he will be the husband of Elvira!"
"The husband of Elvira!" cried Rosabella, her eyes flashing fire, and her cheeks glowing, whilst every fibre quivered with agitation, and her fine features bespoke the tremendous passions of a demon. "Then may everlasting misery attend the fiend that has deceived us; that has led us on step by step to our destruction, and is perhaps even now mocking our despair! Yes, yes," continued she, as the fiendish laugh of Cheops rang in her ears, and his detested form stood again before her,—"I expected this; you come to enjoy your triumph and mock our credulity; but know, this arm is yet powerful enough to revenge my wrongs; it shall annihilate my rival; and thou, wretch! detested hideous wretch! thou too shalt feel its vengeance!"
"This to your friend!" said Cheops with a bitter smile: "fie! fie! How blind is human reason when the passions intervene!—all is for the best—have patience; wait a little, and my promises will yet be accomplished."
"If Elvira had died," murmured Father Morris, a dark frown gathering upon his brow.
"You would not be now alive," said the Mummy. "But fear not, all is as you can wish."
"As we can wish?" cried Rosabella indignantly.
"Yes, as you can wish," returned Cheops firmly. "Edmund has obtained permission for Elvira to marry any natural born subject of the realm; but she will not wed him, for she loves another, and that other is a foreigner. He will be enraged at her refusal, and jealousy will alienate him from her cause. He will then naturally espouse that of her rival from ambition and revenge. Rosabella will be Queen, and the law which prevented the marriage of the Sovereign being abolished, Edmund will become her husband—if not from love, at least from ambition."
"O Cheops! 'tis useless to resist—we are thy slaves,—do with us as thou wilt."
"Say rather you are slaves of your own passions," murmured the Mummy; and they parted.
It was a clear frosty day in November, when Elvira, scarcely knowing why, wandered into the garden belonging to her splendid palace of Somerset House; and, entering a pavilion, reclined upon a couch placed opposite to a window that commanded a view of the river. The pavilion was decorated with the utmost taste. Its windows, opening to the ground, were shaded with curtains of gossamer net, lined with pink; the walls were beautifully painted, and divided into panels by highly ornamented columns; books, drawings, and musical instruments, were scattered around; whilst tripods, supporting vases filled with the rarest exotic flowers, shed sweet fragrance through the air; and the carpet was so soft and thick, that it felt like moss beneath the feet.
Even in this temple of luxury, however, its fair possessor was not happy. She sighed as she surveyed the gorgeous refinement around her, and felt forcibly the insufficiency of greatness. Listlessly she turned her eyes upon the figures painted upon the walls: they represented the loves of Mars and Venus: they were exquisitely painted: the artist had given to the life the tender modesty of the goddess, and the ardent passion of her lover. Elvira gazed upon his glowing countenance and sparkling eyes; and then, looking down, sighed yet more heavily than before.
She dismissed her attendants, retaining only Emma; and long her eyes were fixed on vacancy, and her mind absorbed in mournful contemplations; when suddenly she was startled by the entrance of a page, and the appearance of Lord Edmund Montagu, who followed almost at the moment of the page's repeating his name: his countenance beaming joy, and hope dancing in his eyes.
"Oh, Elvira!" he cried, "you are now mine—mine for ever! The people permit you to marry. The lords in council have signed the law; the people have proclaimed it with acclamations. You are free! you are no longer debarred from the inestimable pleasures of domestic life—you are independent—you may marry any natural born subject of the realm, and will you now be mine?"
"And so relinquish my independence the moment I obtain it," said Elvira, smiling.
"Oh, my loved! my adored Elvira! consent to make me happy! Believe me you shall be free, and still as much a Queen as at this moment."
"Edmund!" said Elvira seriously, "you deserve more than I can give you; for I will not insult you by supposing you would be satisfied with the possession of my crown without my heart;—and that it is not in my power to bestow."
"My dearest Elvira, you but fancy this. I know your feelings are warm, your sensibility acute, and your generosity unbounded—can you then want a heart?"
"Alas, no! but I have discovered I possess one, only in time to know also that I have given it to another."
"And is that other a youth and a stranger?" asked her lover, gasping for breath.
"He is," replied Elvira, blushing, and looking down.
"Then, indeed, I am wretched!" cried Lord Edmund; and, striking his clenched hand vehemently against his forehead, he darted out of the room.
Elvira gazed after him with a feeling almost amounting to horror. Terrified at the strength of the passions she had awakened, she appeared stupefied, and stood looking like a child who had accidentally cut the string which confined the wheels of some powerful machinery, on hearing its fearful clatter above its head.
"Oh, madam, madam!" cried Emma, wringing her hands, "what will become of us? Your Majesty has offended Lord Edmund for ever, and for that wretch, who, I am certain, is a fiend incarnate!"
"Peace, Emma!" said Elvira, "you forget my rank—I will not be dictated to."
"Pardon me, dear madam, you know I love you, and—"
"I know, also, that you presume upon my love. Begone!"
Emma obeyed, and Elvira was left alone.
Dreadfully agitated, and quite unable to compose herself or arrange the chaos of her thoughts, she walked to the windows of the pavilion, and, opening one of them, looked out upon the gardens. It is already said that these delightful grounds were thrown open to the public; but, in consequence of the ease with which they might be enjoyed, a few half-pay officers, attorneys without clients, physicians without patients, clergymen looking out for livings, hissed players, disappointed authors and discarded servants, alone strolled through their romantic walks, and paused occasionally to gaze upon the beautiful works of art with which they were decorated. The English were now decidedly the first sculptors in the world. Chemical preparations alone being used to supply light and heat, smoke was unknown, and the atmosphere being no longer thick and cloudy, marble bore exposure to it without material injury. Besides this, perhaps no nation in the world produced more beautiful models of male and female beauty than England; and now that the women had long thrown off those deformers of the human shape ycleped stays, their forms developed themselves into perfect symmetry. Elvira, however, thought not of the gardens, nor of the works of art they contained; yet as she stood at the window, though absorbed in her own reflections, her eyes rested upon the exquisite statues before her. The inanimate marble seemed endowed with soul and spirit, whilst the graceful forms it represented seemed to pause only for a moment, and to be ready to start again into life and action after a short repose—in short, they appeared to breathe; and the spectator felt almost surprised, when his eye had turned from them, to find them still in the same attitude when he looked again.
The river was frozen, and persons glided along it in glitteringtraineaux, or skated gracefully with infinite variety of movement; whilst, every now and then, a steam-percussion-moveable bridge shot across the stream, loaded with goods and passengers, collapsing again the instant its burthen was safely landed on the other side.
Pleased with the busy scene around her, Elvira stood and gazed, till half her troubles seemed to vanish, and a pleasing train of thought crept over her mind. "What have I done?" thought she,—"and yet I do not repent.—No, no! I could not act otherwise. The noble and devoted love of Edmund deserved my warmest gratitude, and I have done right to own the truth to him, painful as it has been to me to do so, rather than torture his generous bosom by exciting hopes I never meant to realize. Yes, I have done right," repeated she aloud; "and I am perfectly satisfied with my conduct."
"Then you have reason to be contented," said the deep voice of Cheops, immediately behind her; "for few indeed are the mortals that can say so with justice!"
The solemn tones of the Mummy sank like a foreboding of evil upon the heart of Elvira, and she shuddered involuntarily.
"You think I have done wrong then?" said she.
"I did not say that," returned he calmly.—"But had I not known the sex, I might perchance have felt surprised that you should avow, unasked for, a secret to Lord Edmund, which you have sedulously endeavoured to keep concealed even from me."
"Alas," cried Elvira, "my motives—"
"Were those of a woman," interrupted Cheops; "a being fated to work mischief. I do not blame you; for you have only acted according to your natural instinct."
"What do you mean?" asked Elvira, turning pale and trembling, for the words of the Mummy created an undefinable dread upon her mind.
"Listen!" said Cheops, "and I will tell you.—If you had confided your secret to me, it would have produced good, for I should have aided your passions, and I cannot give assistance unless it be required;—but by telling it to Lord Edmund you have produced evil, for he mistakes your lover for another, and the consequences may be fatal. Thus, it is clear that you could not have done otherwise than as you have; for when was a woman known to hesitate between good and evil, and not choose the latter?"
"Mistakes my lover for another!" exclaimed Elvira. "For God's sake, explain yourself!"
"He thinks you meant Prince Ferdinand," said the Mummy coldly, "and he is now seeking him in order to destroy him."
"Oh, God!—Oh, God!" cried Elvira in the bitterest agony: "what will become of me? where is Edmund! Let me fly to implore him to spare the prince!"
"It does not appear to me," said Cheops still more calmly, "that your endeavours to preserve him are at all likely to produce the effect you wish; for, as Lord Edmund already believes you love the prince, and as that belief is the reason of his hatred, your showing a violent anxiety for his welfare does not appear to me exactly the mode most calculated to destroy his suspicions."
"True! true!" cried Elvira, wringing her hands. "Alas! alas! what will become of me?" whilst, as she spoke, a piercing cry rang in her ears, and a sudden rush of all the persons in the gardens took place towards one particular spot. Scarcely knowing what she did, Elvira followed the crowd, and shrieked with indescribable terror as she heard the clashing of swords. Pale and trembling, she hurried forward, and arrived just as Prince Ferdinand, uttering a deep groan, fell beneath the sword of Lord Edmund. Elvira screamed, and throwing herself upon the body, endeavoured in vain to revive it, quite forgetting in the excess of her agitation the crowd that surrounded her, and the interpretation that might be put upon her behaviour. One sole idea occupied her mind, and chilled it with horror: it was, that her imprudence had most probably deprived a fellow-creature of existence.
Lord Edmund in the mean time stood in statue-like insensibility, gazing upon her with feelings of unutterable anguish. Her grief, her violent emotion, seemed to confirm the passion she had avowed; and if she loved, his exertions had only paved the way for the success of his rival. The thought was madness. Lord Edmund gnashed his teeth, his countenance changed, blood gushed in torrents from his side, for he too was wounded, and he leant fainting against a tree.
The confusion that now prevailed was indescribable. It was high treason to draw a sword in the precincts of the royal palace; and the guards, who were instantly assembled, took the offenders into custody. They were both incapable of offering any resistance, and they were hurried away to prison amidst the exclamations of the mob. Elvira had fainted, and she was carried back to the palace; whilst the whispered speculations of the crowd, upon the strangeness of the scene, arose in half-stifled murmurs like the distant roar of ocean. The attention of the spectators, however, was soon fixed upon the poor old Duke of Cornwall. He had stood bending forwards—his hands clasped, and his eyes riveted upon his daughter during the whole of her ineffectual attempts to revive the prince. The old man seemed turned to stone: he neither moved, nor spoke; his glassy eyes were set, and his livid lips slightly quivered; at last he uttered a faint groan, and fell senseless into the arms of his attendants in a fit of apoplexy. The spectators thought him dead, and fancied his heart had broken, on discovering this unexpected weakness on the part of his adored daughter.
Every one was powerfully affected, and every one seemed bursting to speak; though no one knew exactly what he might venture to say. Lord Gustavus looked stern, Lord Maysworth important, and Dr. Hardman sly; whilst the Lords Noodle and Doodle shook their little heads, till they seemed in imminent danger of becoming separated from their bodies. Rosabella's heart alone swelled with rapture, and her eyes beamed with ill-concealed triumph.
"The Mummy was right," thought she;—"Elvira must fall, and Edmund will be mine."
The evening of the day on which Prince Ferdinand and Lord Edmund were committed to prison, Sir Ambrose, as he was writing in his study, was startled by a loud scream; and flying to the spot from whence it proceeded, he found Clara lying upon the ground insensible, whilst Abelard was stooping over her, and endeavouring to render her some assistance.
"Good God!" cried Sir Ambrose, "what is the matter?"
"It is all owing to the carelessness of the domestic assistants at the next door," replied Abelard. "No. 7, is just come back from Brighton; and one of the assistants being occupied in making observations on the sky, instead of minding what he was doing, pushed the house a little on one side as it was slipping into the sockets; and poking their horizontal spout through our library window, they have knocked down this shelf of books, and frightened poor Miss Clara out of her wits."
"Stupid idiots," said the baronet; "they might have killed her if the books had fallen upon her."
"I beg your pardon, Sir Ambrose," said the culprit, putting his head through the window; "I do not conceive Miss Montagu would have been injured even if the books had fallen upon her. The weight of her body, I should apprehend, must be nearly equivalent to that of the books; consequently, the resistance she was capable of opposing, being fully equal to the blow she would have received, the effect must have been neutralized."
"Confound your explanations!" said Sir Ambrose, whose anger was increased tenfold by this speech; "you've killed my niece, and now you want to drive me distracted. Clara, my dear Clara! open your eyes, my love; are you hurt?"
"Oh, my dear uncle!" sighed Clara, "Edmund is in prison, and he certainly will be beheaded."
"In prison, child! you must be dreaming."
"Indeed I am not, uncle: I heard the men who are placing the adjoining house say so. He has fought with Prince Ferdinand in the palace garden."
"My boy, my darling boy!" cried Sir Ambrose, and rushed out of the room in despair.
"Follow him, for Heaven's sake, follow him, Abelard," said Clara. The worthy butler obeyed, wringing his hands, and lifting his eyes up to heaven; whilst Clara remained perfectly motionless, and apparently absorbed in thought.
"I will save him," said she after a short pause, "or perish in the attempt."
In the bitterest anguish of mind, Sir Ambrose hastened to the palace; but he was refused admittance, as he was informed the Queen was in a high fever. He inquired for his friend the duke: he too was invisible, his late attack having placed his life in imminent danger. Dr. Coleman was in attendance on the Queen; and the lords of the council, though they affected to sympathize with the unfortunate father, evidently, though covertly, rejoiced at the disgrace of their most powerful rival. Repulsed on every side, Sir Ambrose now proceeded to the prison; but here also he was refused admittance, and sadly and slowly he returned home in despair, resting his sole remaining hopes upon the advice and assistance of Father Morris, upon whose gigantic strength of mind he was accustomed implicitly to rely in all the impotency of age and misery.
The prison to which Ferdinand and Lord Edmund had been conveyed was situated in a close disagreeable part of the city of London, called Kensington. It had been formerly a palace, and had been surrounded by a noble park miscalled a garden. The devastating hand of improvement had however, as usual, waged war against all the sublimer charms of nature, and the majestic beauties of Kensington fell victims to its fury. Narrow, unwholesome streets now rose where spreading oaks had once stretched forth their venerable arms, and verdant lawns had become dirty causeways; whilst ponds were turned to water pipes, and Jacob's well kept clean a common sewer. As Ferdinand and Edmund, however, had never seen Kensington in its pristine glories, they could not now regret the change: and it was to them neither more nor less than a place of confinement, a spot very few people show any manifest relish for.
Immediately upon their arrival, Prince Ferdinand and Lord Edmund had their wounds dressed by the automaton steam surgeon belonging to the prison, which, being properly arranged and wound up, staunched the blood, spread the plasters, and affixed the bandages with as much skill as though it had done nothing but walk a hospital all its life. As soon as these operations were performed, the prisoners were locked up in separate cells, and left to meditate upon their situations.
"Good Heavens!" cried Ferdinand, looking round with astonishment at the elegant apartment he was shown into, adorned with a painted velvet carpet, silk curtains, and chairs and tables inlaid with brass and ivory; whilst a sumptuous canopy hung over a bed of down on one side, and divers little Cupids supported lights, held back curtains, and performed numerous other useful offices in different corners. "Can this be a prison? Neither Paris nor Vienna possess palaces half so splendid!"
The surprise of Ferdinand was natural, as he was still almost a stranger in England, and did not know that our happy island had been long blest with a race of people who thought prisons should be made agreeable residences, and had gone on improving them till they had ended in making them temples of luxury. In spite of all the conveniences of his prison, however, Ferdinand was perfectly wretched. He could not imagine what reason Lord Edmund had had for fastening a quarrel upon him; for, as his passion for Elvira, though violent, had been quite as evanescent as that he had formerly entertained for Rosabella, he had not the least idea of having excited Lord Edmund's jealousy. Fatigued at length with forming fruitless conjectures, he threw himself upon his bed of down, and soon lost the remembrance of his cares in a refreshing slumber.
In the mean time, Clara was revolving in her mind the best method of putting in practice a wild scheme that she had formed, of visiting Prince Ferdinand in prison. She did not dare confide her plan to any one, for she feared that anybody she might consult would either laugh at her folly or betray her secret. Besides, to obtain any assistance, she must give some motive for her conduct; and as Clara did not exactly know her own reasons for thus acting, it was quite impossible she could make out a case to satisfy another. To go, however, she was determined; and when the family of her uncle were all retired, she wrapped herself in a large mantle, and with some difficulty contrived to reach the street. The night was cold and dark; a thick mist fell, and Clara seemed chilled to the heart; yet a feeling she could not account for, urged her on. Clara was young and romantic; she loved Prince Ferdinand, and she fancied him in danger. How she was to save him she knew not, and yet it was solely the hope of saving him that urged her forward.
She had discovered he was confined at Kensington, and thither she bent her steps:—but as she passed the palace, she found a crowd of balloons floating around it, laden with persons whose anxiety respecting the Queen had kept them waiting, and induced them to besiege her door personally with their inquiries; whilst the lighted flambeaux, belonging to these aërial vehicles, flashed brightly in the air, and looked like a multitude of dancing stars, as they rapidly crossed and recrossed each other above her head.
This little incident completed poor Clara's bewilderment; and, terrified lest she should be seen and recognized, she hurried on without exactly knowing where she was going, till, perplexed by the different appearance the streets seemed to assume in the darkness, and her own fears, she found to her unspeakable dismay that she had lost her road. In the greatest agitation and distress, she now wandered to and fro, whilst her embarrassment was increased every moment by the ill-timed raillery of the passers by. At last, she became quite surrounded by a group of people, who assailed her with so many questions and jokes, that the poor girl, quite overpowered, stopped short, and burst into tears.
"Och! and what are ye about to be after disturbing a poor young cratur like that," cried the well-known voice of Father Murphy, as the friar's portly figure was seen bustling through the mob. "What are ye after there? Don't you see the poor thing has lost her way in the darkness; and if ye bother her so, how d'ye think she'll ever be able to find it?"
Never did any music sound so harmoniously in Clara's ears, as the father's rich deep brogue; and darting forwards she threw herself at his feet, and, clasping her arms round his knees, she exclaimed—"Oh! save me! I am Clara! Clara Montagu!"
"Clara!" cried Father Murphy, in the utmost astonishment. "Clara! why, what in the name of Heaven brings you out, child, at this hour of the night?"
"Oh! don't ask me, father," returned Clara, gasping for breath; "that is, I will tell you presently. But take me away; for the love of the blessed Virgin, save me from these men!"
"Come here, my child," said the Father, drawing her arm within his own, and walking away with her; "let us lave these people. And now," continued he, when they were already at some distance from the crowd, "you must tell me, child, what brings ye here?"
This question, though it was a very natural one for the friar to ask, was beyond Clara's power to answer. In fact, she trembled so dreadfully that she could scarcely stand; and when she attempted to speak, her teeth chattered in her head so violently, that she could not articulate a syllable. "Poor thing," muttered the compassionate priest, after waiting a few minutes in vain for an answer, "she'll be better presently."
All now was dark, and they walked slowly on some paces without speaking, when four bright flashes from a neighbouring clock announced the completion of some hour, and the next instant the solemn deep-toned bell distinctly pronounced the word "one," and then all again was silent.
"I had no fancy it was so late," said the father, whose disposition was naturally too cheerful to let him ever remain long silent.
"Did you think it was one o'clock, Clara? I little thought I should ever be wandering with you, dear, in the streets at such a time of night. I can't help fancying it's all a dream, any how: so speak, darling, if you can, and tell me all about it."
Clara felt still more faint, and only replied by clinging yet more firmly to the friar's arm. Father Murphy was frightened and thought she was going to die.—"Oh murther!" cried he, "what will I do? she brathing her last, sweet cratur, and nobody by to help her, and I not knowing how to comfort her."
The delicate form of Clara seemed every instant to become more heavy, as she still clung almost unconsciously to the friar's arm, and gasped feebly for breath.
"Oh! what will I do? what will I do?" repeated the poor father, looking eagerly around for aid: all however was dark, and gloomy and silent as the grave. Suddenly, however, a bright meteor-like substance appeared at the edge of the horizon, and the friar, to his unspeakable transport, discovered it to be a patent night fire-stage balloon. He hailed it, and in a few moments it was hovering over their heads; the accommodation ladder was let down, and Clara and her companion having ascended to the car, the balloon again rapidly sailed along.
"Where are we going?" asked Clara faintly.
"Och!" returned the friar, "and that's what I never thought of asking, darling; but Heaven be praised that ye are so much better as to be able to bother yourself about it."
"We are going to Kensington, miss," said the balloon conductor.
"Kensington!" repeated Clara, clapping her hands together in transport—"thank God!"
"It's a very good thing to be thankful any how," said the father; "but I own I don't see why you should cry out in such rapture, when you find we are going the wrong road."
"Oh! no, no, father," returned Clara, "not the wrong road; for Kensington is the goal of all my wishes."
"Poor thing! she is certainly distracted," thought Father Murphy. "The loss of her cousin has deprived her of her senses; but I will let her take her own way; perhaps she'll be better presently."
"Where will you like to be set down?" asked the man.
"Near the prison," cried Clara eagerly.
"Near the prison!" repeated Father Murphy, shrugging his shoulders. "Ay, ay, I was right."
Not another word was spoken till the balloon stopped and the passengers were set down: all still was dark, save a land-light that gleamed from the battlements of the prison, and showed a tall, clumsy-looking figure that marched with heavy, measured steps to and fro before the gates, whilst at a little distance lay a party of soldiers bivouacking. Clara shuddered as she looked at them, and hastily turning away, timidly approached the figure, and begged it to let her into the prison. It continued its march, but as it did not speak, she attempted to pass by it.
"No admittance," said the figure, as she touched it, in trying to reach the door.
"I implore you," cried Clara, wringing her hands in agony.
The figure did not reply, but continued its solemn tramp unmoved; its hollow steps falling heavily upon the ear at regular intervals. Driven to despair, Clara again endeavoured to rush past it; but she was again repulsed as the figure reiterated its monotonous "No admittance!" Clara threw herself upon her knees before it in agony.
"Clara! Clara dear!" cried Father Murphy, attempting to raise her, "you are certainly quite beside yourself; don't you see it is an automaton? nothing can stop it but the proper check-string, and that is in that little guard house, round which you see the soldiers lying."
"Thentheycan admit me," cried Clara wildly, "theyare men, and will surely listen to me:" then before the father could stop her, she flew towards them, and throwing herself at the feet of the commanding officer, implored his pity. The officer was a man of feeling, and, touched with compassion at her evident anguish, had promised to grant her petition ere Father Murphy, who was too fat to move with much agility, could reach them. "Thank you! thank you!" cried Clara, kissing the officer's hand. "God bless you!"
The officer smiled at her warmth. "Wait here a little," said he: "I will soon return and admit you, if I obtain permission; but State Prisoners are ordered to be guarded so closely, that I dare not take any step respecting them, without consulting the governor."
"So then you'll get in after all," said Father Murphy, who had approached near enough to hear this last speech. "Well, well, what a world this is we live in! Here have been dukes and princes begging for admission unsuccessfully, and yet a little saucy girl, only because she happens to be half distracted, is let in at the very first word."
Clara did not reply; but wrapping herself in her cloak, sate down on a large stone near the gates to wait the officer's return. The solemn automaton had been stopped for a moment to allow him to pass, but it had now resumed its slow measured step, and Clara's heart sickened at the sound. The mist cleared away, and the night became fine, though cold, whilst the moon having struggled through the clouds that rapidly scudded across the sky, shed her pale feeble light upon the scene. Clara shuddered as she looked at the dark heavy building behind her, and, wrapping her cloak tighter round her, fixed her eyes anxiously upon the sky, watching the varied shapes assumed by the clouds as they drifted along, and sighing heavily as they passed.
"Now tell me, dear," said Father Murphy, seating himself beside her, "what ye mane to say to yere cousin when ye get in to see him. Spake freely, for the devil a word the spalpeens yonder shall hear of what ye're going to say, by rason of their being all fast asleep."
"My cousin!" exclaimed Clara. "Who? what?"
"Your cousin Edmund, that ye're come so far to see," resumed the father.
"My cousin!" replied Clara; "Oh! ay, true. It was my cousin that fought with him, you know. But I don't want to see my cousin."
"Not want to see your cousin!" reiterated Father Murphy, his eyes almost starting from his head in the excess of his astonishment. "Why did you come here then?"
"To—to see Prince Ferdinand," said Clara in a faltering voice, looking down, and blushing.
Father Murphy's astonishment was now far too great for words, and he could only look at her in speechless horror as he revolved some plan in his mind for getting her quietly back to her friends.
"How wild she looks!" thought he: "she must be put in confinement; there is no saying to what lengths, so strange a delusion may carry her."
Whilst the poor father was thus cogitating and repeating to himself divers coaxing forms of words, by the help of which he hoped to persuade her to return, the automaton again stopped, and, the prison door flying open, the officer beckoned Clara to advance. She flew towards him. "Clara! Clara dear!" said Father Murphy, "had you not better go home?" But Clara heard him not; she was already in the prison; the doors had closed, and the automaton sentinel had again resumed his measured, beaten track.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried the unhappy Father Murphy, "what will I do? How will I get her out? Poor Sir Ambrose—he will break his heart. I dare say he knows nothing about it. These kind of fits always come on suddenly."
Thus lamenting, the worthy father walked up and down before the prison in a state of pitiable distress, till a bright thought flashed across his mind, and he set off as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him to put it in execution.
In the mean time Clara had followed the officer into the prison, and her heart beat faster as she advanced, for her undertaking now appeared to her in a new light, and she trembled as she thought of the interpretation the Prince might put upon her boldness. It was, however, too late to repent; she had not even time for hesitation. The officer is already at the door, the bolts are withdrawn, and Clara finds herself in the presence of Ferdinand. Confused and horror-struck at what she had done, she, however, scarcely knew where she was, every thing seemed to swim before her eyes, and, gasping for breath, she caught firm hold of the door-way for support.
For some moments, Ferdinand was not aware of her presence, as he sat gloomily resting his head upon his hand, his elbow supported by a table, upon which lay a variety of papers, whilst Hans, a favourite servant, who had followed him from Germany, stood beside him.
Awed by his abstraction, and abashed by the presumption she had been guilty of, in intruding, unsolicited, upon his presence, Clara still stood irresolute, fearing alike to advance or to recede, till the officer, impatient at her delay, cried, in a loud voice—
"Walk in, if you please, Ma'am, that I may re-lock the door. I shall return to let you out in an hour."
The sound of the officer's voice caught the attention of Ferdinand, and he looked towards the door-way, from the shade of which the trembling Clara was now forced to advance.
"Miss Montagu," cried Prince Ferdinand, who had seen her at one of Elvira's parties, and had thought her so pretty as to inquire her name,—"this is an unhoped-for pleasure; I did not expect this."
"I came—I came—" stammered Clara: and here she stopped short, for upon recollection she really could not tell why she did come.
"I am delighted to see you," said the prince, smiling, and taking her hand, "whatever may be the cause that has procured me this honour."
"I—I—I—had—rather—sit—down," stammered Clara, without having the least idea what she was talking about.
"Well then, we will sit down," said Ferdinand: and, gently placing her upon a chair, he drew one to her side, and again took her hand. His touch thrilled through Clara's whole frame. She felt his ardent gaze upon her face, and dreadfully agitated, fearing she knew not what, she turned away from him, and tried to withdraw her hand.
"I—I—I—believe—I must go," said she.
"So soon," cried Ferdinand, again smiling, for it was impossible to mistake the cause of her confusion. "I thought the gaoler said he should not come again for you in less than an hour."
"Did he!" repeated Clara, quite unconscious of what she said, and without daring to look at him.
"My dear Miss Montagu, will you not bestow one look upon me?" cried Ferdinand, in his most insinuating tone, sinking upon one knee before her, and gently encircling her slender waist with his arm, as he turned her towards him. Clara could not resist his imploring eyes; her heart beat, she blushed, she trembled, she looked upon the ground; when suddenly Ferdinand uttered a faint cry, and started upon his feet. Clara gazed at him with wonder, for that countenance, so lately beaming with love and tenderness, now seemed aghast with horror. She followed the direction of his eyes, and beheld in the door-way the giant form of Cheops; whilst the Mummy's appalling laugh resounded in his ears. Involuntarily Clara shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.
"By the silver bow of Isis!" cried Cheops tauntingly, "I admire your charity, Miss Montagu. Why do you hide your face? But so it is, true merit is always bashful, and the beneficent spirit that prompted Clara Montagu to visit the distressed, and even prefer a stranger to her own cousin, makes her blush to avow her goodness."
"Mercy! mercy!" cried Clara, falling at his feet. "You know my heart, and I implore your assistance."
"And you shall have it," returned Cheops. "As for you," continued he, addressing the prince; "what is your wish?"
"Deliver me from this prison, and make Clara mine, and I will be your slave."
"It is well," said the Mummy. "Clara, you must retire with me; this is no place for you. As for you, prince, Lord Maysworth and Father Murphy will be admitted to your presence in the course of a few hours, to consult with you respecting your defence. Follow their advice, and fear nothing. Rely upon me, and you shall be safe. Come, Clara! you must return to the house of your uncle. He is prepared to receive you, and will forgive your absence, as Father Murphy will, ere we reach him, have fully explained its cause: and Sir Ambrose will overlook your folly, in consideration of your youth. Adieu, Prince! we shall meet again!"
The Mummy and Clara now withdrew, leaving the prince's mind much relieved, as his confidence in his new friend was unbounded; whilst the discovery he had made of the devoted love of Clara soothed his troubled spirit, and robbed his confinement of half its bitterness.
In the mean time, Lord Edmund's mind had been tortured by the bitterest anguish, and his agitation, added to the pain of his wounds, had produced a considerable degree of fever. The conduct of Elvira, and the anxiety she had evinced respecting the prince, seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. "O God! O God!" cried he, as he paced his prison in agony; "I could have borne any thing but this—it is too, too much. By Heaven! I could sell myself to everlasting perdition to be revenged."
As he spoke, he heard the key of his dungeon door grate in the lock, and he shuddered, for he almost fancied some hideous spectre would appear in answer to his call, and he felt indescribably relieved when he heard the gentle, insinuating tones of Father Morris. Sweet is the voice of friendship to the disappointed spirit, and soft falls the balm of consolation from those we love, upon the wounded heart. Edmund's bosom thus throbbed with transport when he saw the reverend father, and, throwing his arms round his neck, he sobbed like a child.
"My dear Edmund," said the priest, also excessively affected, for he really loved Edmund, "it breaks my heart to see you thus—cruel Elvira!"
"Oh, blame her not, father!" exclaimed Edmund; "I cannot bear that even you should blame her. She is deceived—she is under the influence of infatuation. We cannot control our hearts, you know, father."
"But that she should be capable of loving another, when your services, your devoted affection—"
"Alas! alas! father, love is not to be bought by services. All she could give she has given; I possess her friendship and esteem."
"And are you satisfied with those?"
"Satisfied! Oh heavens!"
"At any rate, I suppose you could bear to see her married to Prince Ferdinand, if you thought it would contribute to her happiness."
"Married to him!" cried Edmund, gnashing his teeth in agony—"married to him! Oh any thing but that: but I will never live to see it."
"You are not likely," calmly returned the priest; "for, as the state requires a victim, and Elvira will certainly not resign her Endymion, you will doubtless be sacrificed to save him."
"Hold, hold!" cried Edmund, driven to madness by the thought; "do not dare to repeat those cursed words; I could die to serve her, but I will not be sacrificed. What! am I to be made a tool, a child, an idiot?—destined to labour for my rival, and denied even the poor satisfaction of showing the extent of my devotion? But I will not die so calmly; Elvira shall not forget me—I will see her—she shall at least know my sentiments; and if she treats me with scorn, I will die, it is true, but it shall be by my own hand, and at her feet. I will not be sacrificed—I will not steal out of life like a common criminal.—No; the world shall know my wrongs—I will be heard, I will not fall unnoticed and unknown. Take this chain, Father Morris; give it to her, and tell her I implore, by the recollection of the moment when she bestowed it upon me, that she will grant me an interview. If she refuse me—but no, no, she cannot."
Father Morris took the chain, and, promising to see the Queen, withdrew, leaving Lord Edmund in a state of indescribable agitation. He was not left long, however, to his solitary reflections, for, as he paced with hasty strides his prison, and turned as he reached the wall, the Mummy, Cheops, stood before him.
"Ah, wretch!" cried Edmund, "what brings you here? Came you to torment your victims?"
"I came to help and comfort the unfortunate," said the Mummy.
"Begone!" cried Lord Edmund, "I do not want your pity, and your proffered help I scorn."
"Spare your scorn, proud Lord," returned Cheops, "itwill not aid you, though I might."
"I want no aid!" exclaimed Lord Edmund, "and, least of all, such help asyoucan give me. I despise alike your pity and your vengeance. Come what will, I rely upon myself. Conscious of my own integrity, I do not fear to fall, though demons should assail me. Avaunt then, fiend, for over me thou hast no power!"
Cheops burst into one of his fiendish laughs, and exclaiming, "That time will show," disappeared.
Edmund felt relieved by his absence, though, in spite of his boasted firmness, and the sovereign contempt he expressed for the Mummy, he could not prevent his mind from dwelling upon the circumstance. The appearance of Cheops, indeed, never failed to excite a deep and powerful interest in the minds of all who conversed with him, whilst his appalling laugh struck terror to the firmest breast, and even those who affected to despise his menaces could not prevent their minds from dwelling upon his words. This irresistible power had its full effect upon the mind of Edmund, and, though he endeavoured in vain to shake it off and rouse his mind to think of other things, still the gigantic Mummy seemed to stalk before him. In vain did he strive to picture to himself his interview with the Queen; the hideous features of the Mummy rose in his imagination instead of the lovely form of Elvira, till at length, fatigued and exhausted, he threw himself upon his couch: yet even in his dreams the same image haunted him, and the same words rang in his ears.
Whilst these scenes were taking place in the prison, Elvira was suffering all the torments of a burning fever; she was, indeed, seriously ill: the excessive agitation of her mind, and the horror she felt at the idea of being the murderer of Ferdinand, had overpowered her reason; and by the time Dr. Coleman arrived, (he having been sent for on the first alarm,) she was quite delirious. The thought that she alone had caused the danger of Ferdinand, occupied her mind; and, not being able to bear the idea that her folly might occasion the destruction of a human being, she raved of him incessantly, and repeatedly offered to sacrifice her life to preserve his.
Her ravings were heard by her domestics, and being neither exactly understood, nor correctly repeated, their reports, aided by the artful insinuations of Father Morris, soon produced rumours throughout the city, that the Queen was violently in love with Prince Ferdinand, and had gone mad because the law did not permit her to marry him. The effect this idea produced was prodigious; it was implicitly believed, for the lower classes are naturally fond of the marvellous, and, when there are two sides to a question, are very seldom disposed to err by judging too favourably; whilst the indignation it excited was unbounded. In some cases, men are more tenacious of their prejudices than of their rights. Thus, then, though the English, by consenting to the marriage of their Queen, had deprived themselves of the important right of electing their own Sovereign; they considered what they had done as trifling, when compared with the horror they felt at the thought of submitting to a foreign King: whilst the emissaries of Rosabella, taking advantage of this feeling, by alternately playing upon their fears, and magnifying their terrors, worked them up almost to a state of desperation.
The party of Elvira, in the mean time, was quite unable to stem the torrent opposed to it. The Queen and her father were both too ill to leave their beds, and Lord Edmund was in prison.
"What will become of us?" whispered Emma to Dr. Coleman, one day in the chamber of Elvira, when she fancied the Queen to be asleep. "To-morrow Prince Ferdinand and Lord Edmund are to be tried, and, they say, not even the Queen has power to pardon them if they are convicted."
"It is but too true," returned Dr. Coleman; "they must die, and the punishment is horrid. The criminal is doomed to be burned by a slow fire."
"Horrible!" cried Emma; "and this only for drawing a sword in the vicinity of a royal palace."
"Alas! that is not all! Ferdinand is accused of wishing to marry the Queen; and the laws that devote to a horrid death the man who shall presume to address her in the language of love, yet hold good against foreigners."
"I cannot believe Prince Ferdinand ever dared even think of the Queen," said Emma.
"God only can judge the heart," observed Dr. Coleman; "but, I am sorry to say, the proofs are very strong against him: I have heard, from undoubted authority, that persons will swear they heard him absolutely make love to the Queen; and that she promised to marry him if she could obtain the consent of her people."
"It is false!" cried Elvira, starting from her bed, and standing suddenly between them—"false as hell! Prince Ferdinand never addressed a single syllable breathing of love to me in his existence. He is the victim of a mistake, or rather of my folly; but he shall not die—I will save him, or perish in the attempt!"
The calm, decided tone in which Elvira spoke, and her spectral appearance, produced an almost magical effect upon her auditors, and they stood awestruck and aghast, whilst Elvira continued:—
"Dress me, Emma; I will see my people; I will appeal to them myself. It is the day for receiving petitions in Blackheath Square: there will be a multitude assembled. I will go there in person, and address them."
"It is the raving of delirium," whispered Emma to Dr. Coleman; "what shall I do?"
"Do you dare to hesitate?" said Elvira, whose sense of hearing, sharpened by her recent illness, enabled her to catch distinctly the words of her favourite.
"Humour her," returned Dr. Coleman; "in her present state, opposition would be fatal."
"It would indeed be fatal," said Elvira, seating herself in a large arm-chair, whilst the temporary colour her previous exertion had given her, faded from her cheeks, and she looked the image of death.
"She will faint!" cried Emma, flying for aid.
"It is impossible for her to go in this state!" said the doctor.
"Impossible!" cried Elvira, starting up wildly, and her cheeks again glowing with the deepest crimson, whilst her eyes sparkled with superhuman fire; "what is impossible to a determined spirit? Haste! haste! Emma, and let me go, whilst I have yet strength; for go I will, though death await me there. My rashness has endangered the life of Prince Ferdinand, and I will die to save him!"
Farther opposition was useless, and the doctor retiring, Emma hastily attired her mistress. The people were expected to assemble as usual in the Square, though, from the illness of the Queen, a deputation of nobles had been appointed to receive the petitions. The feelings of Elvira were wrought up to an unnatural energy: every limb trembled with agitation, and every nerve thrilled with impatience, whilst she was dressing; and when she was ready, she descended the staircase, leaning upon the arm of Emma, her cheeks flushed with a hectic glow, her lips quivering, and her eyes shining with unusual brightness.
At the foot of the staircase they met Cheops. He stedfastly regarded the Queen, and smiled at her agitated appearance with his usual calm scorn.
"Oh!" cried Elvira, the moment she beheld him, "my pride is humbled. I own I love Seymour. Aid me to save Ferdinand, and I am thy slave."
"Appeal to your people," said Cheops, his eyes flashing with proud triumph; "your feelings will give you eloquence. But do not confine yourself to obtaining the power to pardon Ferdinand. Demand to be free; the people will refuse you nothing. Tell them, first, that they have insulted you by giving you permission to marry, and then dictating whom you shall choose. Require perfect freedom. They will comply, and bow their necks beneath your footstool. But rest not satisfied with any thing short of actual submission. Endure no conditions. This is the moment to decide your future destiny. Act with energy, and you will be happy. But if you falter, destruction is your portion."
"I will obey you to the letter," said Elvira, as she walked with a firm step past him, and sprang into her balloon, followed by Emma.
"Oh, my dear, dear mistress!" said that faithful confidant, "do not listen to that wretch; he is a serpent sent to wile you to destruction. Do be advised; do return and relinquish this mad enterprize."
Elvira did not reply. Her feelings were too highly wrought to permit her to speak, and bending eagerly forward, she watched, with an impatient eye, the streets and houses they flitted over, scarcely able to bear the agony of suspense during the time necessarily lost in the transit, and seeming every instant to long to precipitate herself forward to the goal of her wishes.
The balloon now rose unusually high, whilst masses of fleecy clouds hid the town from their view, and looked like flocks of sheep beneath their feet.
"We are going wrong!" cried Elvira, in agony; "we shall be too late."
"No, no," said Emma, "I feel we descend again—we are arrived."
And as she spoke, the balloon sank rapidly, whilst the clouds opening, discovered the immense Square below them, apparently paved with human heads.
"Thank God! we are not too late!" cried Elvira, clasping her hands together, and sinking back upon her seat; whilst the balloon-conductor directed the machine to the palace usually appointed for the reception of the Queen. Elvira did not wait to arrange her dress; she did not wait to take refreshment, or even to rest a single moment from her fatigue, but she rushed upon the terrace the instant she quitted the balloon, and presented herself before her astonished people, every limb quivering from the violence of her agitation.
The crowd was immense. The extensive space looked one compact mass of human heads; but Elvira's courage did not fail her. Though she had now no Lord Edmund to support her, and no father or applauding friends to listen as she spoke, yet the enthusiasm of the moment gave her strength. She forgot every thing but the cause that brought her there; and her mind, thrown back upon its own resources, rallied its energies, and seemed to gather courage from the thought; whilst her sylphic figure appeared to dilate in size, and assume an almost awful dignity from the grandeur of the spirit that animated it, as she thus stood before her subjects, her life or death hanging upon their will.
Her arrival had been hailed by the loudest shouts of wonder and of joy; but when the multitude saw she wished to address them, the tumult was hushed, and they waited in breathless silence for her speech. The deep stillness that prevailed amongst this so lately bustling crowd of human beings, and the thought that every ear and every eye were turned towards her, slightly affected the nerves of Elvira, and her lips trembled as she began to speak; but as she became warmed with her subject, her voice gradually assumed its natural depth, melody, and sweetness; whilst its full tones sank deep into the hearts of her auditors, and carried conviction as she went on.
She first appealed to their gratitude; and, after alluding to all she had done to secure peace and plenty to their domestic firesides, she reverted to the misery of her own situation, before the laws had been revoked that had condemned her to celibacy. She powerfully painted the harshness of the destiny that debarred her from the blessings she had so lavishly bestowed upon others. She alone, of all her subjects, had been destined to the wretchedness of a solitary life, unsoothed by the tender cares of a husband, uncheered by the affection of children. She alone had been doomed to wither away her youth in cheerless widowhood. Their fiat had changed her destiny; but was it the part of a noble and generous people, whilst they conferred a benefit to encumber it with restrictions? No; she was confident the liberal spirit of the English would spurn the sordid thought, and shrink from such a manner of obliging. "Make me free!" said she, "really, absolutely free, and I promise solemnly you shall never have occasion to blush for your Queen."
As she spoke, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with unwonted fire; whilst the people, struck by the suddenness of her appearance, and her enthusiasm, and carried away by the force of the sentiment that could metamorphose the tender, gentle Elvira into the exalted being before them, shouted applause; whilst cries rang loudly through the air of "Long live Elvira!" "Marry whom you list, we shall still be your slaves! Still be our Queen, and let your children and children's children reign over us, when you shall be no more."
Delight danced in the bright eyes of Elvira, and a blush of pleasure mantled on her cheek, as she gracefully thanked them. "And yet, my friends," continued she, in a fainter voice, "there is another privilege I would demand at your hands. I am called free and absolute, yet I am chained by the laws. Unloose these bands; give me at least the power to pardon. I know, that if I wished it, I might reverse these laws at my will, as the power of the Queen that made them was not greater than that which you have bestowed upon me. But I wish not to do so: I would rather accept that from your hands as a favour which I might exact as a right. Give me then, my people, the most blessed attribute of royalty. Let me pardon. Can you refuse me this?"
"No, no!" shouted the people with enthusiasm; "we are your slaves! Do with us as you list. The laws are yours; and though you change them at your pleasure, we will obey! Long live Elvira! Elvira for ever! From henceforth we own no law but her will!"
Elvira's rapture was unbounded; she forgot the unstable nature of the vox populi, and triumphed in the devotion of her people; whilst they, in return, shouted forth her praise, as she warmly expressed her gratitude, in tumultuous transports. The air rang with acclamations; and Elvira, looking proudly round upon her obsequious subjects, felt herself indeed a Queen. There is perhaps no sensation in the world more delightful than thus to feel oneself the idol of the multitude, to see every eye beaming with admiration, to hear every voice resounding praise, and to know every heart is devoted to one object. The human mind cannot enjoy a higher gratification than in the consciousness of power; whilst the man thus exalted, seems raised to the level of a divinity, and triumphs in the worship of his fellow-creatures: but, alas! such glory is too much for mortals, and nothing can be more evanescent, or rather, nothing a more certain prelude to disgrace.
Elvira, however, knew not that her popularity was too great to be lasting. She implicitly believed her people would continue to feel what they now expressed, and, catching the spirit of the moment, she persuaded them to sign an abolition of the laws, and a confirmation of her absolute power. The people obeyed with rapture; the enthusiasm that animated them had not yet abated; and even if Elvira had desired their lives, they would have obeyed. They considered her inspired, and it seemed sacrilege even to hesitate to comply with her commands.
So powerful was the energy of a woman's will, and so sure it is that a determined spirit may overcome any difficulties when once roused resolutely to exert itself. Such also is the influence of beauty and eloquence upon the human mind, and so weak is judgment when attacked through the medium of the senses.
In the mean time, the council of Elvira had met in their usual apartment, and were holding a solemn consultation, previous to going to receive the petitions, on the propriety of addressing the people whom they might find assembled in the Square, respecting the illness and consequent incapacity for reigning of the Queen.
"Thinking as I think, and as I am confident every one here must think," said Lord Gustavus de Montfort, "there is no middle course to be pursued: a regency must be appointed, or the government will be overturned."
"Oh! there is no doubt, we cannot exist without a regency," said Lord Noodle.
"Yes, yes! we must have a regency!" cried Lord Doodle.
"It appears to me, to say the least of it, premature," observed the Duke of Essex, a highly respectable nobleman, who had hitherto observed a cautious neutrality; "I think, before deciding upon so important a question, we should at least examine her Majesty's physicians, and be guided by their report."
"His Grace is quite right," said Lord Noodle.
"We ought to examine the physicians," said Lord Doodle.
"One of them has just entered the council-chamber," observed Lord Gustavus; "I presume he brings the usual daily bulletin of her Majesty's health: is it your pleasure, my lords, that he be examined?"
"By all means!" cried all the noble lords simultaneously, and Dr. Hardman advanced.
"How is her most gracious Majesty?" asked Lord Gustavus, with his usual solemnity.
"Alas! my lord," said Dr. Hardman, "her Majesty has slept badly, and is much worse this morning."
"Is she still delirious?" asked the Duke of Essex.
"Quite, your Grace," returned the doctor, shaking his head.
"Then I fear there is no hope?" said the duke.
"None!" said Lord Noodle, shaking his head.
"None!" echoed Lord Doodle, shaking his.
"Thinking as I think, and as I am sure every one here must think," said Lord Gustavus, "we must not suffer the interests of the people to be invaded with impunity. The constitution requires watching over, and I consider this a matter that ought to be inquired into."
"Then you think the senses of the Queen irrecoverable?" asked the Duke of Essex, addressing Dr. Hardman.
"Not irrecoverable, I hope, my lord duke," replied the doctor; "though I own her delirium is alarming."