The time now rapidly approached for Edmund’s return; letters had been received from him, announcing that he should be in England in a couple of days, and the Duke having made all the preparations possible, and twice as many as were necessary, for removing his whole household to town, became in an agony of impatience to set off. He had not permitted either Sir Ambrose or Elvira to inform Edmund of his approbation of his attachment; and he anticipated, with almost childish delight, the effect that would be produced on Edmund’s mind by the joyful intelligence. Elvira, however, did not appear to participate in her father’s pleasure, and as the hour approached for their departure for town, her spirits became evidently more and more depressed; whilst Henry Seymour’s gaiety seemed also to have quite deserted him, till the good-natured Duke compassionating his dejection, and really feeling sorry to part with so agreeable a companion, invited him to accompany them to London. Henry Seymour’s bright eyes sparkled with joy at this proposition, and seizing the Duke’s hand, he exclaimed—
“I’ll go with all my heart—and you are a dear good creature for thinking of asking me!”
“There’s nobody shall be more welcome,” returned the Duke, not at all offended with the familiarity of his young friend’s address, though it was quite out of all rule according to the bienséances of the age; “for I don’t know anybody I love better, excepting my old friend here, Sir Ambrose, and Edmund.”
“And Elvira and Rosabella, and me?” said Clara Montagu coaxingly.
“What should I love such a little hussey as you for, I wonder?”
“Oh, that I don’t know; but I’m sure you do love me, let you say what you will!” returned Clara, whom delight at the idea of her expected journey had made half wild.
“Good Heaven! Henry Seymour!” said Doctor Coleman, in an impressive tone; “you cannot surely be so mad as to intend going to London?”
“Why not? There is no danger, and if there were, would it not be worth braving in such a cause? By Heaven! I would leap over the crater of Mount Etna with such an object in view.”
“Well, you must do as you like. I know it is in vain to attempt to reason with you when you have made up your mind.”
“Quite, my dear doctor, so don’t waste your eloquence.”
“We shall set off tomorrow,” said the Duke: “I wish we were there.”
“What a pity,” remarked Henry, “that nature did not mingle a little patience with your Grace’s other good qualities.”
“It is, indeed;—‘for patience,’ as Father Murphy says, ‘robs care of its bitterest sting.’ ”
“Och! and is it me ye’re quoting from, yere Grace? And where’s the use of that, pray? when ye know I’m just here and ready to quote for myself.”
“If all your observations are as good as that the Duke has just repeated,” said Sir Ambrose, “I don’t know anybody that might be quoted from with more advantage.”
“Sure! and is it of myself ye’re saying that?” asked Father Murphy, “for if ye are, ye never made a betther spach in all your life; only there’s a little misthake if ye think the observation ye’re talking of came out of my own head, for it didn’t do any such thing.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Father Morris, who now approached, and who spoke with his usual satirical sneer: “No one who knows you will ever suspect you of anything so atrocious.”
“Good-nature and integrity are sometimes more than equivalent to brilliant talents,” said Sir Ambrose bitterly.
“True,” rejoined Father Morris, in one of his softest, most insinuating tones; “but they become inestimable when united, as in the example before us:” bowing to Father Murphy as he spoke. Sir Ambrose turned, and looked earnestly at the tall thin figure of the monk as he stood before him, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his head, as usual, bent towards the ground, but he did not speak.
“By the way,” said the Duke, “is it not strange that we have never heard anything of Edric since he left? I begin to think that it was all a planned thing, and they would have gone just the same if nothing had been said of Rosabella.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Sir Ambrose.
“I see no impossibility in the business,” resumed the Duke. “I think the case is clear. They did not know how to get off decently; and so Edric pretended to quarrel with you and me, to give the thing a face.”
“I cannot fancy Edric guilty of such meanness,” cried Sir Ambrose passionately.
“I don’t think the matter admits of a single doubt: I only wish I had not offered him my niece. What is your opinion of the subject, Father Morris?”
“Men devoted to austere professions like myself,” replied the priest, without raising his eyes from the ground, “know but little of what is passing in the world. Thus, though my body be no longer shrouded in the gloom of a cloister, my mind still remains too much abstracted from the busy scenes around me, for me to be a competent judge of the effect of human passions.”
“Och! then,
