“And what is your will with me, Father Murphy?” asked Dr. Coleman, with an air of melancholy.
“Sure and I’d be afther telling ye directly, barring that I’ve a bit o’ a note here, that ’ill spak’ fasther than I can.”
So saying he presented a letter to Dr. Coleman, who opened and read it with considerable agitation.
“You’ll excuse me, Sir Ambrose, this is a matter of the greatest importance. So my young friend is waiting without? I must see him instantly. I must bid you adieu for the present, Sir Ambrose, but you shall see me again in a day or two. I have a friend, the son of an old friend, Mr. Henry Seymour, come to spend some time with me, I hope you will permit me to have the honour of introducing him to you; I am sure you will like him. He is a young Irishman; a very nice young man.”
After running through this speech with astonishing volubility, he hurried away, leaving Sir Ambrose excessively annoyed at his departure; and totally at a loss how to account for it, or how to class his strange visitor, till he recollected that Dr. Coleman had passed many years in Ireland; and that it was the illiberal policy of the king of that country to have his priests lowly descended and ill-educated men, lest they should acquire too much influence over his subjects, and become dangerous to his government. The Irish priests, thus divested of all the dignity of the sacerdotal character, gradually degenerated into a kind of privileged jesters, tolerated in every great house for the amusement they afforded, and obliged if they had any wit, to conceal under the appearance of folly. Father Murphy was evidently one of this humiliated class, and his connection with Dr. Coleman was easily accounted for, by supposing him to belong to some family Dr. Coleman had formed an acquaintance with, when in Ireland; but the mysterious allusion which the Doctor had made respecting Edric, was not so comprehensible, and Sir Ambrose waited eagerly for several days, in the hope that he would call to explain what he had meant. No doctor, however, arrived, and as the Duke’s mind was completely occupied by another subject, Sir Ambrose was left entirely to his own reflections, without having a single creature to whom he could impart them, or from whom he could hope for sympathy. The Duke, in fact, was a specimen of a class common enough in the world, of men whose minds will not hold more than one idea at a time, and his head was now so full of the splendid images connected with Edmund, that Edric’s rejection of Rosabella and subsequent departure were almost forgotten.
It was far otherwise with Sir Ambrose, who now began to repent, though secretly, of the unwarrantable severity with which he had treated his son. It is a trite though undeniable observation, that we never know the real value of any possession till we have lost it; and thus Sir Ambrose, though he had thought nothing of the respectful and dutiful attentions of his son, whilst he was in the habit of constantly receiving them, now felt their want, and regretted bitterly the ill-timed harshness that had deprived him of them forever. Still, however, he was too obstinate to own he had been wrong; and though he knew that by recalling his son he should restore his lost happiness, he, like many other persons in similar situations, most magnanimously determined to persist in being miserable.
Four days had elapsed since that on which Dr. Coleman had so abruptly left Sir Ambrose, ere he called again, and when he made his reappearance, he was accompanied by a tall, handsome young man, whom he introduced as Henry Seymour, and the good-humoured, though eccentric Father Murphy. Sir Ambrose received his guests very coldly, for he felt hurt by the doctor’s neglect; but the Duke, who, attended by Father Morris, happened to be with Sir Ambrose when they arrived, was quite enchanted with them, and when they rose to depart, gave them a general invitation to his castle. This courtesy, which seemed to displease alike Father Morris and Dr. Coleman, was accepted with transports by the strangers, especially by the younger, whose enthusiastic expressions of gratitude quite delighted the old Duke.
From this moment the fancy the Duke had so suddenly conceived for the strangers, rapidly became intimacy, and they were soon quite domesticated at the castle. Henry Seymour listened to the Duke’s stories—laughed at his jokes—admired his dogs and horses, and above all, approved of his improvements; whilst he talked and walked with Elvira, or read to her as she worked, or accompanied her when she sang or played, with his voice or flute. In short, he became quite l’ami de la maison, and was beloved by everyone in it, excepting Father Morris, Marianne, and Rosabella. Marianne he seemed to consider as quite beneath his notice, and Rosabella he was uniformly polite to; but Father Morris he evidently hated, and took very little pains to conceal his feelings. When these broke forth a little too strongly, Doctor Coleman would often look grave and shake his head, but in vain; prudence was not Henry Seymour’s forte: wit and good-humour danced gaily in his bright blue eyes; but the expression of violent passions often flitted in quick transition over his animated features, and he frequently appeared to have the greatest difficulty in restraining himself within due bounds.
His manners, too, were much too familiar for his station, and when disappointed in trifles, he often treated the Duke and princesses with unwarrantable haughtiness. Like a petted child, he was always either offending, or suing to be forgiven, and though on these occasions Doctor Coleman always whispered “Beware!” the admonition was generally forgotten at the very moment when it might
