“The woman’s tale seemed plausible; and my wife and I were easily induced to conclude the bargain which gave us possession of Pauline! We visited the cottage of this woman the next morning, and found her story true, excepting that she had only lived there a few weeks. This, however, appeared immaterial; as indeed she had not fixed any definite time for the period of her residence, and gave some reason which I have forgotten, for having left her former abode when her husband died. Soon after this, we left England, taking Pauline with us: her beauty increased with her years; and when my poor wife died, which she did a few months after our return to Switzerland, Pauline formed the sole consolation of my life. Two or three years afterwards, a friend of mine visiting England called by my desire upon the reputed mother of Pauline. He found the cottage deserted, and the landlady of the inn told him, that the woman had left the place a few hours after we had done so ourselves.
“This circumstance, combined with the evidently affected vulgarity of the woman, and the elegance and delicacy of Pauline, has always induced me to suspect I was the dupe of a deception, and that the child had been stolen from parents in a superior rank of life to that in which I found her. Whether my conjectures are correct, I know not; but when I have surveyed the beauty and graces of my child, my breast has smote me for confining her to my own humble station, and I have determined, whenever circumstances would permit, to take her to England, and endeavour, if possible, to elucidate the mystery that hangs over her destiny.”
“Accompany me then to Ireland,” said Roderick, “and when you have stayed there till you are tired, if you still wish to prosecute your researches, I will give you letters of introduction to the English Court, and I sincerely hope we may find our fair friend to be a princess of the blood at least.”
In the meantime, M. de Mallet’s narrative had caused the greatest agitation in the breasts of Edric and Pauline. “Not his daughter!” thought the former; “whose then can she be?” and his imagination ran wild amongst a variety of dreams and fancies, each more extravagant than the last: for to suppose the elegant and accomplished Pauline the daughter of a mere peasant was impossible; and the transporting hope that she might yet be his, with the consent of his father and the approbation of all his friends, danced before him; whilst Pauline, uncertain what to think, and unable to analyze her own sensations, felt, even amidst the desolation in which the avowal of M. de Mallet had involved her, a faint emotion of pleasure still throb at her heart, when she reflected that now her country was that of her lover, and that it was possible—she dared go no farther, for her senses seemed unable to support the intoxicating thoughts of what might follow.
It had been agreed that our friends should remain a few days at Seville, to give the army at Cadiz time to recover from the fatigue of their march previous to their embarkation: but the morning after their arrival, a courier arrived with dispatches from England, which made Roderick impatient to leave Spain immediately. He was at breakfast when these letters, which had been forwarded to him from Cadiz, were put into his hands. He changed colour, and, starting from his seat, begged Edric to follow him into the garden.
“Good God, what is the matter?” asked M. de Mallet.
“Nothing, nothing!” replied Roderick; “but that I must return to Ireland immediately.”
And waving his hand as though to repel farther inquiry, he left the room; Edric followed in silence. “Edric,” said the Irish Monarch, throwing himself into a garden-seat and burying his face in his hands; “Elvira is dethroned, and perhaps murdered, all owing to my cursed folly in remaining so long in Spain.”
“Elvira!” exclaimed Edric, looking at his friend in the most profound amazement; for he could not imagine why he took so deep an interest in her fate.
“I see your astonishment, Edric,” resumed the King; “but I have not now time to explain whys and wherefores. Suffice it to say, that I adore Elvira, and if she perish, I will not survive her.”
A piercing shriek burst from the thicket as he uttered these words, and both Edric and Roderick sprang involuntarily to the spot—it was vacant; they searched the wood, but no creature was to be seen.
“It was fancy,” said Edric.
“It was the Mummy,” murmured the King, “come to chide me for doubting his promises for an instant.”
“The Mummy!” cried Edric; “good God! what do you mean?” and he gazed with horror upon the wild and haggard countenance of his friend, who he seriously believed had become distracted. His looks recalled the fleeting senses of Roderick, and with a ghastly smile he replied, “I am not mad, though I have enough to make me so. We must return to Ireland without a moment’s delay, and there reinforce my army. Elvira must be restored immediately, for her life is in danger from every moment’s delay.”
“I hope not,” said Edric; “for though I detest Rosabella, I do not think her capable of assassination.”
“If she be not, Father Morris is,” returned Roderick, in a low voice, with a look of intense feeling.
Edric turned pale—“In the name of God, tell me who and what you are?” said he earnestly; “and how you have obtained this close knowledge of the English Court.”
“I am called the Devil’s favourite, you know,” returned Roderick, smiling, in spite of his distress, at his friend’s embarrassment, “and it would be very hard if my patron did not give me a hint now and then upon
