Rosabella seemed equally disinclined for conversation. Though the conduct of her uncle was quite different from what she had expected, her active mind had already suggested a thousand explanations for it, each less consonant to her judgment than her wishes. “His letter must have been one of mere friendship—and it is possible that he does not love her,” thought she; whilst, as the idea flashed across her mind she turned eagerly to Elvira, to read its confirmation in her countenance:—but, alas! those timid, downcast looks—and those glowing cheeks, told but too plainly a tale that drove Rosabella to distraction. Scarcely had the balloon stopped when she sprang from the car, and rushed to her own room in a state little short of madness, whilst Elvira, with a beating heart followed her father to the library.
Rosabella was met at the entrance to her apartments by her favourite attendant, Marianne, who had lived with her from her childhood, and who governed her with despotic sway. It is strange, but the most haughty people are generally the most submissive slaves to those who have acquired power over them, and the proud-spirited female who would spurn indignantly all control from her titled relatives, will obey implicitly—nay, almost servilely, the wishes of a favourite servant. Thus it was with Rosabella. Marianne was perfectly aware of her power, and she occasionally used it tyrannically, but on the present occasion she was really alarmed at the glowing cheeks, flashing eyes, and agitated frame of Rosabella, and asked with an appearance of deep interest, if she were ill.
Rosabella did not speak, but throwing herself upon a sofa, hid her face in both her hands.
“What is the matter?” asked Marianne, gazing at her with astonishment.
“He loves her! he adores her!” cried Rosabella, starting from her couch and traversing the room rapidly. “Curse on her beauty! Oh that a look of mine could wither it! or that she could feel the burning fire that rages here!” Then stopping suddenly, she gazed upon her attendant with the wildness of a maniac, and, pressing her hand firmly against her side, threw herself again upon her couch, exclaiming, “Oh, Marianne! why am I not beloved like Elvira?”
“And are you certain that she is beloved?”
“Certain!” reiterated Rosabella, wringing her hands; “Alas! alas! would I were not so certain; but can I doubt the evidence of my senses? This day—this very day! she has received a letter from him. I saw a blush of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks, and I could have stabbed her to the heart—yes, and exulted in her dying agonies—triumphed in her groans. Oh, Marianne! is it not extraordinary that one so great, so noble, and so exalted as Edmund, can love such a poor, weak, feeble being as Elvira? But she loves him not; at least not as he should be loved. She is incapable of it.”
“I think she is and that though he now admires her beauty, yet, when he discovers the feebleness of her soul, he must despise her.”
“But he is so blinded that he fancies her very faults perfections.”
“That blindness cannot continue. When Edmund knew Elvira, he had seen nothing of the world; and people thus situated, who have warm imaginations, generally amuse themselves by conjuring up an idol of perfection to which they attach all kinds of merit, probable or improbable. They invest the first face or figure that takes their fancy, with these imagined charms, no matter whether they accord or not, and then fall in love with the image they have created—whilst the delusion under which they labour, makes them see every action of the beloved object under a false light; just as people wearing green spectacles fancy the whole creation tinged with emerald. Intercourse with the world dispels these visions, and when Edmund returns he will be as one awakening from a dream: he will look in vain for the charms which once bewitched him.”
“Oh, that you may be right! but yet I fear—”
“Fear nothing—Edmund will return quite changed. Though in reality he has been absent only a few months, he will have acquired more knowledge of the world, than in all his previous life. He will now know himself, and will feel that he wants a companion in a wife: one that can enter into his views, participate in his wishes, and if necessary, aid him in his plans. Then will he be able to properly estimate your character, and despising the feeble Elvira, he will lay his heart and hand humbly at your feet.”
“Alas! alas! were even this flattering vision realised, it would be then too late.”
“Too late! what mean you?”
“That even now Elvira is confessing his attachment to her father, and, perhaps—oh, there is madness in the thought!—even at this moment she may be receiving his approval.”
“Then we are lost,” said Marianne, and a pause ensued, interrupted only by the convulsive sobs of Rosabella, who wrung her hands and wept aloud in the bitterest agony.
“But are you sure you have not deceived yourself?” resumed the confidant; “your jealousy
