Elvira blushed, and cast her eyes upon the ground; whilst the rapid changes of her expressive countenance bespoke the agitation of her mind; Lord Edmund comprehended but too well the meaning of her silence, and he sighed deeply. “It is enough,” said he, in a mournful tone; “then the die is cast.” He paused a few moments, whilst his friends, though they looked at him with the deepest commiseration, respected his emotion too much to venture to interrupt it: then rousing himself, he hastily brushed a tear from his eye, and exclaimed, “How weak is human nature! I know my duty, and I will perform it; but yet—Oh Elvira!”
“Compose yourself, my beloved Edmund,” said his father; “tomorrow you will be more calm.”
“Oh, talk not of tomorrow!” replied Edmund; “today is the season for action. I will instantly assemble my friends: I know the army is devoted to me. A council of state will be chosen to direct the kingdom during the interregnum. I must be one of its members: some weeks will elapse before the election can, I think, take place?”
“Three months is the time fixed,” said the Duke: “as you know the votes of all the people are to be collected, and that, with such a population as ours, will be no trifle: to be sure, it is the deputies that are to do the business, but then it will take some time to elect them.”
“When the founder of the present dynasty ordained her successor should be chosen by the votes of the whole people,” said Sir Ambrose; “she wisely recollected the difficulty that must arise from collecting their votes individually, and directed they should elect deputies; but when she ordered that every ten thousand men throughout the kingdom should choose a deputy of their own rank and station to come to London to represent them, she did not calculate upon the immensity of our present population, nor think of the evils the presence of such a disorderly body of men must bring upon the capital.”
“Yet any attempt to reduce their number, would inevitably overturn the government,” observed Father Morris; “for as it is the only act of freedom the people have long been permitted to enjoy, they will be proportionably tenacious of it.”
“And the majority of these deputies is to decide the election,” said Edmund, musing; “then our business must be to secure that majority. Think you that any good can be done by endeavouring to procure the return of those who are disposed to be favourable to us?”
“Very little,” returned Father Morris, to whom this observation was addressed; “for the lower classes, from their conceit and pedantry, are extremely difficult to manage: though their deputies may possibly be more tractable, as, notwithstanding the ordinance of the Queen, they will probably be more polished, and less learned. The lower classes will be ill able to spare the time necessary to become deputies, whilst the country gentlemen will be delighted to obtain something to do.”
“We must be prompt,” said the Duke, “at all events. I don’t like delay.”
“True!” replied Edmund, starting from a reverie into which he had fallen; “I must get myself nominated a member of the council, and we must arrange our other plans afterwards.”
The party now separated, and Elvira, left alone with her companion, indulged in dreams of futurity. “I am sorry for the death of Claudia,” said she, “but I never loved her; she was so cold and uninteresting—such a mere matter-of-fact being—she had no soul, Emma, and how can one love a being so totally passionless and insipid? I wonder,” continued she, after a short pause, “what Henry Seymour will think of this?”
Emma smiled. “Poor Lord Edmund!” said she.
“I know what you would say,” returned Elvira; “I am sorry for him, and I admire his conduct extremely. There is really something very noble about him; and though I do not love him, it is only from the fault of my character: I am incapable of feeling strong passions—yet I pity him. Poor Lord Edmund!”
Emma again smiled, for she thought differently, and she saw, in spite of this pity and admiration, that in a week poor Lord Edmund would be forgotten.
In the meantime, Rosabella’s mind was a prey to the most violent passions. A billet from Father Morris had informed her of the death of her cousin, and of the designs brooding against her interests. “I will be revenged,” said she; “I will show them mine is not a soul to dwell upon impotent grief. I will assemble my friends; my father’s party was strong in the state; it cannot be quite extinct. Let me see, to whom shall I apply?”
“The Lords Noodle and Doodle (both of ancient families) were devoted to your father, and were under great obligations to him when they were young,” observed Marianne.
“But they are such fools!” said Rosabella.
“They are well connected,” returned her confidant; “and power does not always attend upon talent.”
“True, and, as they are so weak, I may guide them as I will.”
“Do not rely upon that: folly is generally obstinate; and though there may be hopes of convincing a man of sense, fools will always have their own way.”
“How then are they to be dealt with?”
“By letting them fancy they direct, when, in fact, they are directed. Apply to Lords Noodle and Doodle, as though for advice, more than assistance. Consult them how you ought to act, and suggest the advantages that will arise from your possessing the throne so artfully, that they may fancy what you say the dictates of their own minds, and then, if they advise any course, they in some measure pledge themselves to support you, if you pursue it.”
“I do not
