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 shall 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 December, 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 which commanded a view of the river. The pavillion 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 forever! 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
