“And yet,” continued the Duke, “I cannot bear that Elvira should be deprived of her right, she would so become a crown; and with her inflexible sense of justice, and desire for improvement, she would do so much good, that I should not feel justified in depriving the country of such a sovereign.”
“Thus,” said Father Morris, smiling, “do we deceive ourselves; you are ambitious whilst you think that you are only just. Believe me, if you consult Elvira’s real happiness, you will not impose upon her the troublesome duties of a crown; she will make a better wife than a queen; for her gentle nature is less fitted to command than to obey. Rosabella has more firmness.”
“I do not agree with you, Father,” said Sir Ambrose; “in my opinion Elvira is infinitely better fitted to be a queen than Rosabella, for her passions are more under the control of reason.”
“That is to say,” resumed the monk, sneeringly, “they have not yet been called into play.”
“What do you mean, Father?” began the Duke.
“Nothing that could give you offence, my Lord,” returned the priest. “Disgusted myself with the world, I naturally thought the princess most likely to find happiness where I seek it myself—viz. in a life of quiet and retirement.”
“Enough,” said the Duke: “but where is Edmund? Let us seek him; no doubt he is with Elvira:—poor things! we must spoil their billing and cooing.”
Edmund was with Elvira, and was passionately urging his suit, whilst she, engaged with her embroidery frame, listened with a half abstracted mind, and Emma duteously waited behind her chair.
“You do not love me,” said he, “or you could not answer with such provoking coldness.”
“You are so unreasonable, Edmund. I have already told you I have no idea of that passionate overwhelming love you appear to feel, it absolutely terrifies me, and I am sure it is not natural to my character.—(This silk is too dark, Emma)—and so, Edmund, if you feel you cannot be happy with such affection as it is in my power to bestow, we had better determine at once to separate.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Edmund, striking his forehead violently with his clenched hand; “how coldly you talk of our separation!”
“What can I do? I try everything in my power to please you. (Emma give me my scissors.) But since you will not hear reason—”
“Reason!” cried Edmund fiercely, seizing her arm, and then letting it go again; “If you talk of reason you will drive me distracted!”
“You quite terrify me with your violence, Edmund,” said Elvira, rising, and preparing to quit the room.
“Oh stay! stay, my adored Elvira!” exclaimed Lord Edmund, throwing himself upon his knees and catching her hand; “for Heaven’s sake, stay! pardon my impetuosity—frown upon me, treat me with coldness, disdain, or contempt, but do not, do not leave me.”
“I do not know what you wish; I have repeatedly told you I am ready to become your wife whenever our parents think fit; and that I will do everything in my power to make you happy. Do you call that coldness?”
“I do—I do indeed: freezing, insulting coldness. Oh, Elvira! I would rather see you spurn me—hear you declare you hated me, or know that you doomed me to destruction, than hear you speak of our marriage in that calm, unvaried tone.”
“How unreasonable you are!” said Elvira, “as Henry Seymour says—you do not understand my character in the least.”
“Henry Seymour!” cried Edmund fiercely: “how dare he pass an opinion upon my conduct? He shall account for his insolent interference.”
“Oh no! no!” exclaimed Elvira, turning pale with terror; “I’m sure he meant no harm. For Heaven’s sake, Edmund! my dear Edmund,” continued she, earnestly laying her hand upon his arm—she paused—Edmund gazed upon her intently—she became confused, and added in a faltering voice, “do not hurt him, Edmund!”
Edmund sighed deeply: “You shall be obeyed,” said he.
At this moment a slight tap at the door announced the arrival of the Duke and his friends.
“So, so!” said the Duke, “we have found you, have we? But you must take your leave of tender scenes for the future.”
“What do you mean?” asked Edmund.
“The Queen is dead,” said Sir Ambrose. The glowing countenance of Edmund turned of a ghastly paleness; and his livid lips quivered, as he leaned against the window for support.
“Assist him!” cried the Duke. “He will faint! Don’t distress yourself, Edmund; the death of Claudia shall make no alteration in your prospects.”
“I am better,” said Edmund faintly, attempting to smile, and waving off all assistance; “ ’Twas but for a moment: the suddenness of the shock overcame me: I thought the Queen was better.”
“She was supposed so,” returned the Duke; “but it seems she had some internal malady her physicians were not aware of. An inward bruise, I believe. But don’t make yourself unhappy about it, Edmund; I cannot bear to see you wretched. Let Rosabella take the crown, and think no more about it.”
“Your Grace wrongs me,” said Edmund, his fine countenance glowing with the exalted feelings of his soul. “However I may suffer from the violence of my feelings, I can never permit them to interfere with my sense of duty. Elvira has a right to ascend the throne, and if my exertions can ensure her success, she shall be Queen.”
“Thou art a brave lad!” cried the Duke. “And will you really try to secure the election of Elvira, when you know, by so doing, you will deprive yourself of her forever?”
“I shall do my duty,” said Lord Edmund, pressing his lips firmly together, as though to suppress his feelings. Father Morris looked at him from under his overshadowing cowl with a kind of sardonic smile, which seemed to say “You speak well, but let us see how you will act.”
“My noble Edmund!” murmured Sir Ambrose, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Elvira’s eyes thanked her lover for his disinterestedness; while the glow which flushed her cheeks, betrayed, that
