“Now is the time,” cried Father Morris; when he saw that Elvira, exhausted by her grief, had hidden her face in her hands, to indulge her tears unrestrainedly.
“You ensure your own destruction if you attempt to kill her!” said Cheops.
“I care not,” returned Father Morris; and removing the panel, he approached. Elvira saw him not: and the shining dagger already was aimed at her breast, when it caught the eye of the maniac; and returning reason flashed through his mind.
“Edgar!” cried he, with a piercing scream, “spare my child!”
The cry roused the friends of Elvira, who had remained in the antechamber, and they rushed in. In an instant the room was crowded; Father Morris was secured; and his confederates (from his having left the panel open) discovered.
“Edgar!” cried the Duke; “yes, it is Edgar! my brother! my only brother! and this is Elvira. She is not fled; I knew she was not! She is safe!”
“And is it possible,” cried Edric, “that you can be Duke Edgar!”
“I am that wretch!” said Father Morris.
“Then Rosabella is—”
“My child! and for her I have become the wretch I am! Yet to her I have done my duty; and if she be spared—”
“Ah!” cried M. de Mallet; “it is, it is—yes, I am not deceived, that is the woman who sold us Pauline.”
“Who, which?” exclaimed Edric eagerly.
“There,” cried the Swiss, pointing to Marianne.
“Marianne!” exclaimed Edric.
“Yes,” said she, “Marianne! He is right; it was I, and now is the moment of my vengeance. Seduced and deserted by this man,” pointing to Father Morris, “my passions, always impetuous, panted for revenge. I instigated him to murder the wife for whom he had abandoned me—I stole his child and sold her to a stranger—and I substituted my own wretched offspring, whom I had had by a man he abhorred, in its place.”
“What!” cried Father Morris, his livid lips quivering with anguish; “is not Rosabella my child?”
“No,” said Marianne; “twenty years ago I sold your child to this gentleman,” pointing to M. de Mallet. “He was a foreigner, and I believed, by placing her in his hands, you would never see her more.”
“Then who is Rosabella?”
“My child, and by your servant Jacques.”
“Curses on thee, woman! What! have I then destroyed myself here and hereafter for the offspring of that wretch? A man I detested, abhorred, despised!”
“Yes,” said Marianne with a fiendish laugh. “You abandoned me, and I swore to be revenged: he heard my oath, and by promising to assist me obtained my consent to be his paramour. By his aid I effected all the rest. He has long been dead, but still I have pursued my plan; and when I saw you risking soul and body for Rosabella, I have gloried, for I was revenged.”
“Fiend!” cried the priest; and rushing upon her before anyone could prevent him, he stabbed her to the heart, and then instantly withdrawing the dagger buried it in his own bosom. “Still I am revenged!” cried Marianne, as heaving a deep sigh she expired. Father Morris never spoke again.
My tale is nearly closed, for dull must be the mind that cannot picture all the rest. The Duke recovered his reason, and enjoyed all the happiness his bosom was yet capable of, in witnessing the union of his daughter and Roderick, whom he had loved as Henry Seymour, and now adored as the hero of Ireland. He gave Pauline a noble fortune, as his niece, and she married Edric; who, in the absence of his brother, took possession of his father’s wealth, and fixed his residence in his former dwelling, where, after all his troubles, Dr. Entwerfen found himself comfortably reestablished in his ancient chamber; whilst Clara, by becoming the bride of Prince Ferdinand, secured her own happiness.
The coronation of Roderick and Elvira, as King and Queen of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, was superb, and far excelled that in which Elvira had previously been an actress. Taught wisdom by experience, however, she no longer placed implicit reliance upon the shouts of applause which followed her footsteps;—yet, even with the reflection that all the promises she received might be evanescent, she could not resist the emotion of pleasure that swelled her breast, when, after the priest had pronounced the nuptial benediction, she walked with Roderick, the chosen of her heart, through a long line of kneeling subjects, and heard every mouth implore blessings on their heads, and bestow praises on her choice.
Proudly did Elvira look around as she reached the entrance of Westminster Hall; yet, ere she entered it, a rush and bustle in the crowd attracted her attention, and a man, clad like a monk, threw himself before her. Elvira screamed; when the man throwing back his cowl, fixed his heavy eyes upon her, and exclaimed, “Do you not know me, Elvira?” It was Edmund.
“Alas! alas!” cried he, “the demon was right; I trusted in my own strength, and I have fallen, miserably fallen. Though I knew it not, ambition was my god—and everything else weighed lightly in the scale. Yet, even when my ambition was gratified, I was wretched; for I loved you, Elvira, even whilst I plotted against you;—and as my own heart reproached me, I felt every wrong you suffered far more poignantly than you could yourself. My poor father too!—but all is over now, and I am doomed to bitter expiation of my sins—bitter indeed, for oh, how far beyond all other sufferings are the never-dying tortures of remorse. One thought alone haunted my mind—one image alone floated before my senses. I could not die till I had obtained your pardon. Pardon me then, Elvira! See! thus humbly at thy feet I implore thy forgiveness, crouching in the dust, and bending my neck to be thy footstool!”
“Rise, I entreat you, rise!” said Elvira; “and be assured I forgive you—nay, that I pity you from my inmost soul.”
“She
