“It is of no use,” sighed Sir Ambrose, still straining his eyes to endeavour to decipher the movements of the telegraph, the outlines of which now only appeared, stamped as if in jet, and strongly relieved by the dark grey sky beyond.
“It is of no use,” reiterated Father Morris, and the whole party were preparing to retire, when suddenly a vivid light flashed upon them from the hill, and instantly a long line of torches seemed to stream along the horizon. “He is coming home, but will write more tomorrow,” exclaimed the whole party simultaneously; for all knew well by experience, the meaning of that signal. “He is coming home, thank God!” repeated Sir Ambrose, his pallid lips quivering, and every limb trembling with agitation.
“Look to my father,” cried Edric, “he will faint.”
“Oh no, no!” repeated Sir Ambrose: “thank God! thank God!”
“Lean upon me, at least,” said Edric, affectionately.
Sir Ambrose complied; and, supported by his son, gazed anxiously on the torches, the red glare of which, by shedding an unnatural light around them, made the surrounding darkness only appear more intense. Thunder now growled in the distance, and rain began to fall in large drops; yet still Sir Ambrose stood, with his eyes fixed upon the torches, and no persuasions could induce him to leave the terrace. These wild, fearful-looking lights, gleaming through the tempest, seemed a connecting link between him and his darling son; and it was not till they were obscured by the thick heavy rain, and even the outline of the telegraph vanished in the gathering clouds around, that he could be induced to seek for shelter.
Sir Ambrose slept little that night: the sleep of age is easily broken, and perhaps the joyful agitation of his spirits had produced a slight access of fever. He rose with the dawn; and, long before the rest of his family had descended, summoned Abelard, that he might dispatch him to inform the Duke of Cornwall of the news: as Father Morris, on account of the storm, had passed the night at the house of Sir Ambrose.
“Go,” said he, as soon as the drowsy butler made his appearance. “I am sure the Duke feels nearly as great an interest in the success of Edmund as myself, and will not be displeased if he be disturbed a little earlier than usual upon such an occasion.”
“I obey,” replied Abelard. “I will shake off my somnolent propensities, and speed with the velocity of the electric fluid to the castle of the noble chieftain.”
“Take heed you do not forget your message by the way,” repeated Sir Ambrose, smiling.
“Not all the waters of Lethe could wash such somnifugous tidings from my memory,” replied the butler. “Your honour’s words are imprinted upon the mnemonic organ of my brain; and my sensorium must be divided from my cerebellum ere they can be effaced.”
The Duke of Cornwall had been the intimate friend of Sir Ambrose almost from infancy. They had been companions at school and at college; besides which, peculiar circumstances which had happened in their youth, had linked them together in indissoluble ties. What these circumstances were, however, no one exactly knew, except the parties concerned, and they always avoided alluding to them. All that was generally understood upon the subject being, that Sir Ambrose had, in some manner, been instrumental in saving the Duke’s life; but how, when, or where, was never clearly explained.
The Duke of Cornwall was of the royal family of England, and closely allied to the throne. His father had been brother to that prince who had so steadfastly refused the crown when it was offered to him by the ambassadors from the people; and as that prince had left no male descendants, the Duke might be considered as legitimately entitled to reign. The thought of disturbing by his claims the female dynasty now established, had, however, never entered into his mind, for having taken it into his head that he would marry his daughter Elvira to Edmund Montagu, and his niece Rosabella to Edric, he turned all his thoughts, plans, and wishes to the accomplishment of this object, and suffered no other idea to interfere with it.
Like most persons living in complete retirement, the Duke was exceedingly fond of petty mysteries and needless manoeuvres, and he wasted as much ingenuity and as many contrivances over this scheme, as might, if differently applied, have sufficed to overturn kingdom. It was true, the interest of the plot was somewhat spoiled, by the fear that the instant he made known his intentions, everyone would be delighted to comply with them: yet still, as long as it was kept secret, it was a plot, and as it was the best the Duke could muster, he resolved to make the most of it.
For this purpose he made Father Morris his confidant, and held long private conferences every day with him upon the subject. The Duke was now completely happy: he had not only something to plan, and something to think about, but he had also someone to oppose, for Father Morris’s opinion as to the dispositions of the young people, was diametrically opposite to his own; he thinking the strong mind and haughty spirit of Rosabella better suited to the ambitious Edmund, whilst the soft yielding disposition and feminine graces of Elvira seemed to harmonize exactly with the taste of the
