Lord Edmund in the meantime 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 which 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.
Everyone was powerfully affected, and everyone 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.”
XXVII
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; “she would have been killed 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 almost killed my niece, and now you want to drive me distracted. I am always willing to hear reason, but I hate explanations.”
“Your honour must excuse me,” remarked Abelard, pausing in his attempt to raise Clara: “but your honour’s syllogism is not well maintained. Your Honour has been pleased to state that you love reason, and yet your Honour professes to hate explanations. Now to explain, and to give reasons, are synonymous.”
“The Devil take your logic,” cried Sir Ambrose; “Clara! my dear Clara! open your eyes, my love! are you hurt?”
“I would not say anything disrespectful to Sir Ambrose for the world,” resumed the man whose carelessness had occasioned Clara’s accident, “but I cannot refrain from observing to you, Mr. Abelard, that even now, his Honour’s last proposition was by no means self-evident. The copula, and the predicate did not agree, for how could the Devil, personified in his Honour’s speech as an active agent, take, that is seize, or lay hold of your logic, Mr. Abelard, a thing which is not tangible?”
“Perhaps his Honour spoke metaphorically,” observed Abelard; “and then you know one is allowed a license.”
“Oh, if his Honour spoke metaphorically it alters the case completely,” returned the man.
“And you would let my niece lie and die whilst you are settling the point?” cried Sir Ambrose, as he raised Clara himself, and placed her upon a chair. “How are you, my dear child?” continued he in a softer tone; “What is the matter? Where have they injured you?”
“Oh, my dear uncle!” sighed Clara, “I am not hurt, but Edmund is in prison, and he will certainly be beheaded.”
“In prison, child! you must be dreaming.”
“Indeed I am not, uncle: I heard the men say so who are placing the adjoining house. 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;
