“I am really very sorry,” said he, “but you must excuse my inattention. Sometimes, you know, the mind is not in tune for literary discussions, even when proceeding from the most eloquent lips. This is my case at the present moment. My mind is so occupied by the important change that has just taken place in my affairs, that, I own, even your learning and eloquence were thrown away upon me.”
“If that be the state of your mind,” replied the doctor, with chagrin, “it is of no use to show you any more of my literary treasures; else I have some of matchless excellence. Here is a letter addressed to Sheridan, a witty writer of comedies, in the eighteenth century, which has never been opened—and here is a tailor’s bill of the immortal Byron, which may possibly never have been looked at. But here is the most inestimable of my relics. Look, at least, at this. This piece of paper, covered carelessly with irregular strokes and lines, was once in the possession of that enchanting, that inimitable novelist of the nineteenth century, generally distinguished in the works of contemporary writers by the mysterious title of ‘The Great Unknown!’ See, here is half the word ‘Waverley,’ written upon it, and doubtless all these other irregular marks and scratches proceeded directly from his pen. I confess, Edric, I never contemplate this relic of genius without a feeling of reverence, and almost of awe. ‘Perhaps,’ say I to myself, when I look at it, ‘when these letters were formed, the first idea had but just arisen in the mind of the author of those immortal works, which were afterwards destined to improve and delight mankind. Perhaps, at that very moment gigantic thoughts were rushing through his brain, and a variety of new ideas opening their treasures to his imagination.’ Oh, there is something in the mere random stroke of the pen of a celebrated character, inexpressibly affecting to the mind;—it carries one back to the very time when he lived—it seems to make one acquainted with him, and to let us into the secrets of his inmost thoughts. But I see you are not attending to me, Edric!”
“I am very sorry—another time I should be happy—but now—I cannot. However, when we return, perhaps—”
“It may be then too late,” said the doctor, with solemnity; and locking up his cabinet, he led the way back to his common sitting-room, in high dudgeon.
VII
When Father Morris had left Edric, he proceeded to the house of the Duke of Cornwall, intending to return to that of Sir Ambrose almost immediately; but the scene which took place between the Duke and his niece, altered his determination. It is not in the power of language to describe the agony of Father Morris at the appeal of Rosabella. She had accidentally touched upon a chord that thrilled through every nerve, and almost drove him to madness. The Duke, after attempting in vain to console him, retired, leaving him a prey to the bitterest torments; for, like the votaries of Eblis, he felt unquenchable fire burning in his bosom, and like them, he sought in vain to escape. He was roused from this state of unutterable anguish, by a summons from Sir Ambrose to attend him instantly, and with a heavy heart he obeyed.
Repenting the sins he had committed, yet meditating more, Father Morris endeavoured, as he slowly retraced his steps to Sir Ambrose’s mansion, to soothe his feelings, by dwelling upon the good he meant to do when he should attain power, rather than on the means by which that power was to be obtained: for it is a remarkable fact, that no man likes to appear a villain to himself; and even when his crimes escape the eyes of the world, he is not satisfied, unless he can frame plausible excuses for them in his own mind: though it is true that these excuses would not bear strict examination; as self-love is an able sophist, and slight reasons look brilliant when set off by such colouring.
Nearly reconciled to himself by arguments, the fallacy of which he would have been the first to detect, if they had been offered by another, Father Morris entered the house of Sir Ambrose with his usual calm smile; but his equanimity was almost again upset, when he found Dr. Coleman, a highly respectable physician in the neighbourhood, already closeted with the worthy baronet. Father Morris hated Dr. Coleman, it would perhaps be difficult to say why; unless it was that the priest, feeling conscious his designs would not bear exposure, shrank from the penetrating eye of the physician, whose natural shrewdness was considerably heightened by his professional acumen. There are, indeed, no classes of society better acquainted with the vices of mankind, than the professors of law and physic: a great writer has called law the chimney through which the fiery passions of the world expend themselves in smoke—and the experience of the medical man sometimes even surpasses that of his legal brethren. Admitted into the very bosoms of families—often the unavoidable confidant of the most delicate secrets—an experienced physician becomes naturally cautious, penetrating, and suspicious.
This was the case with Dr. Coleman; and Father Morris now felt particularly annoyed by his presence: as, however, there was no remedy, the father was too good a politician to suffer his annoyance to be seen, and smoothing his brow, he expressed in his usual soft, low voice, the pleasure he said he felt at meeting so unexpectedly with his old friend.
“I am glad to hear that you are pleased to see me,” said Dr. Coleman, with marked emphasis.
“How can it be otherwise? It is so kind of you, who have so many professional engagements to occupy your time, to bestow any of it upon your friends.”
Dr. Coleman did not speak, but he fixed his eyes upon Father Morris, with an
