As he spoke, his eyes fell upon a thicket near him, and he fancied he saw the figure of a man, half obscured 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! Oh 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 blessed 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 everything 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 it is now 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 in fact it was 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
