The family of the Duke of Cornwall retired early to rest at the close of the eventful day we have been speaking of, hoping to lose in sleep the remembrance of the harassing events they had so lately witnessed. Lord Edmund had returned soon after the disappearance of the Mummy; but he locked himself in the chamber prepared for him, and refused to see anyone, his mind being too much agitated for him to endure the common forms of society. All was soon quiet throughout the mansion.
It was midnight when, a tall figure, wrapped in a large cloak, appeared slowly gliding with catlike steps through the garden. It cautiously avoided the light, and crept along the shadiest walks and thickest allies, carefully shrouding itself from observation, and endeavouring, by availing itself of the shelter of the trees, the better to conceal its movements. At the extremity of the garden was a terrace very little used; the door, indeed, leading to it had been so long closed up, as to be nearly forgotten, and yet it was towards this unfrequented spot that the mysterious figure directed its course. The long neglected door slowly opened, and the stream of light it admitted was obscured for a moment by a passing shade; and then all seemed dark, silent, and mysterious as before.
“It certainly went that way,” said a voice, the preciseness of which marked it as belonging to Abelard; “and it was a real, tangible, material form, as I saw its shadow intercept the light when the door was opened and it passed through.”
“It is quite impossible,” cried Mrs. Russel, who having been induced by the inconstant romantic to take a ramble with him by moonlight, had also witnessed this strange apparition; “you must be mistaken Mr. Abelard, for that door does not appear to have been opened this age. It is even nailed up, as you may see yourself if you examine it.”
“It is very strange,” said Abelard, after he had tried the door and found it immoveable; “I certainly saw it open.”
“It must have been an optical delusion,” resumed Mrs. Russel; “the retina of the eye is sometimes strangely affected, and represents objects quite different to what they really are.”
“I must consult Father Morris about it tomorrow, for in my opinion it was certainly the Mummy spectre.”
“La! do you think so, Mr. Abelard? why then didn’t you speak to it?”
“I will if it comes again,” returned Abelard.
“Oh! there it is!” cried Mrs. Russel; and the worthy pair flew back to the house, screaming in concert, and without once daring to look behind them. Scarcely, however, had the last echo of their footsteps died away upon the ear, when the figure emerged from the recess in which it had lain concealed, and again crept slowly towards the door leading to the terrace.
“Hist! Marianne!” exclaimed the stranger, pausing for a reply; but all was still. “Marianne!” repeated he still louder—“Fools! dolts! idiots!” continued he, stamping violently, as he still found his call of no avail; “they have kept me so long with their cursed folly, that she is gone. Eternal misery haunt them for their officious babbling! By heaven! if they had had the sense to climb the wall, I had been lost: but hark, she comes!”
The door now slowly opened, and a female figure holding a light appeared.
“How is she?” cried the stranger.
“Better,” returned the female.
“Then it is past the power of man to kill her,” resumed the first; and rushing wildly past his companion, he buried himself in the deepest recesses of the grove.
XIII
Father Morris, when Abelard and Mrs. Russel confessed to him the following morning the strange spectre they had witnessed, treated the whole as the mere vision of their heated imaginations, and refusing to listen to any of their surmises respecting it, prepared to attend the Queen, who, finding herself sufficiently recovered to be able to attend to the duties of religion, had, from the general reputation of his superior sanctity, sent for him to confess her. Her Majesty, indeed, seemed rapidly improving, and the hopes of Edmund reviving with her health, he passed every hour he could abstract from the duties of his station at the feet of his adored Elvira, his love for whom seemed increased by the imminence of the danger he had just escaped, of losing her forever.
In this manner several days had passed, and the strange visit of the Mummy, and the accident of the Queen, had already taken their place on the shelf with the other évènemens passés of the day; when one morning, whilst Sir Ambrose was dressing, he was startled by an earnest message from the Duke of Cornwall, entreating him to come to him without delay. Sir Ambrose immediately obeyed the summons, and found the Duke walking up and down his study in a state of the greatest agitation, which Father Morris was vainly endeavouring to tranquillize.
“Oh, my beloved friend!” exclaimed the Duke, springing forward and grasping the baronet’s hand the moment he saw him approach: “my dear Sir Ambrose, Claudia is no more!”
“Dead!” cried Sir Ambrose involuntarily looking at Father Morris, whose aspect, however, still preserved only its usual cold and statue-like appearance. “Are you sure she is dead?—I thought she was better.”
“So we all did,” said the Duke: “but alas! we deceived ourselves, for Father Morris has just seen her expire. Oh! where is Edmund?—why is he not with you?—what will become of him? It will destroy him to lose Elvira: and I, too, that have felt so proud in the expectation of his becoming my son-in-law, oh, it will break my heart!”
“Oh!” cried Father Murphy, who was also present; “and if that’s the
