“Oh, madam, madam!” cried Emma, wringing her hands, “what will become of us? Your Majesty has offended Lord Edmund forever.”
“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 glittering traineux, 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 burden 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 who can say that 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 passion, 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
