“Oh, dear!” cried Clara, involuntarily.
“Why do you exclaim, fair lady?” asked the doctor, smiling.
“I am so surprised—so astonished!” said the blushing girl.
“At what?” resumed the doctor inquisitively.
“That—that,” said Clara timidly, “that the princess should not like to be a Queen.”
“Alas! alas!” said Elvira, smiling languidly, “you are too young, Clara, to know the awful responsibility such a situation would impose. The Queen of England must devote herself to her people; once elected, she is cut off forever from all the happiness of domestic life. She must form no ties—she must indulge in no attachments—she can never feel the happiness of devoting herself entirely to promote the welfare of one adored object. She can never know the transports of a mother!” and, sighing deeply, Elvira cast her eyes upon the ground, whilst those of Henry Seymour were fixed earnestly upon her.
“Yet all this,” said Sir Ambrose, “is rather imaginary than real. The subjects of a good Queen ought to be her children; and the glory of contributing to the happiness of thousands, and ruling nations by a nod, may well compensate for the humbler comforts of a domestic fireside.”
“I do not agree with you,” rejoined Dr. Coleman; “I think the situation of a Queen is one both of trouble and responsibility. We all know how difficult it is to give satisfaction even in the most ordinary occurrences of life; and how much more must that difficulty be increased in such an exalted station. Besides, it seems cruel to condemn a young and beautiful woman to the miseries of celibacy. Woman naturally seems to want support; she is to man, what the clinging ivy is to the majestic oak—its loveliest ornament; but take away the standard tree, and she falls forlorn and unsupported to the dust. Do you not think so, Mr. Seymour?”
The youth started at this appeal, for his thoughts had indeed wandered far from the scene before him. “Yes,” said he, after a short pause.
Sir Ambrose laughed heartily. “Upon my word,” said he, “I congratulate you, Dr. Coleman, upon your happiness in having such attentive auditors. The princess looks as if she had not heard a single word that you have said; whilst Mr. Seymour, when you appeal to him for his opinion, only starts, and says ‘Yes.’ ”
“You are quite right, Sir Ambrose,” returned Dr. Coleman, smiling good-humouredly; “and I begin to discover that reasons are quite useless when the feelings are interested.”
“Och!” said Father Murphy; “and my opinion is that we have all rason to be interested; for I should not be surprised at all at all, if the King of Ireland was to take advantage of our troubles, to make a descent upon us. There is no time so fitting for throwing everything into confusion, as when nobody knows what he is doing.”
“There may be much justice in your remark, holy father,” said Henry Seymour, smiling; “but, for my own part, I own I do not apprehend the King of Ireland has any such bloody-minded intentions.”
“Report speaks highly of his son,” observed Elvira.
“Not more highly than he deserves,” cried Doctor Coleman enthusiastically. “The youthful Roderick is brave, noble, and generous; possessing every quality to fit him for a hero; and is quite incapable of anything bordering upon meanness.”
“Is he handsome?” asked Clara, with infinite naivete, looking up earnestly at the doctor as she spoke.
“As the Achilles of the ancients,” replied the doctor.
“Dear me, how I should like to see him!” said the little beauty, with the utmost simplicity:—“Should not you, Mr. Seymour?”
“I cannot say I have any curiosity,” returned Henry Seymour, having infinite difficulty to help laughing.
“Dear me, how very odd!” said Clara, looking at him earnestly; “I do believe the doctor was only quizzing us, and that he’s very ugly and disagreeable. Is he, Mr. Seymour?”
The air and manner with which she put this question, quite destroyed the small remains of gravity Henry Seymour had till now with so much difficulty preserved; and, bursting into a violent fit of laughter, he rushed out of the room. Everybody looked astonished, and Dr. Coleman embarrassed. After a short pause, however, he seemed to recover himself. “It is very strange the Duke does not come,” said he, pulling out his watch. “The council must be chosen before this; and they seldom stay to deliberate long at a first sitting.”
“I am miserable,” cried Elvira. “If he should be ill!”
“Shall I seek him?” asked Dr. Coleman; and, reading her assent in her countenance, he quitted the room.
“The doctor is very obliging,” said Sir Ambrose; “and seems devoted to you, Elvira; but he never did like Rosabella. He hated her father, and when Duke Edgar—but, I forget! his history is a secret which must rest forever in my own breast.”
“Do tell me, uncle!” cried Clara coaxingly; “I should so like to hear it, and everybody says you know all about him.”
“And what can his history have to do with such a little chit as you?”
“I don’t know,” said Clara with the utmost innocence; “but I am sure I should like to hear it.”
“Why?” again asked Sir Ambrose.
“Because everybody says it is a secret,” replied Clara, clinging round him, and fondly stroking his face;—“so do tell me, my dear uncle, pray do?”
“You are a little coaxing witch,” said Sir Ambrose, patting her long silky hair; “I would tell you anything in reason, but the history of the father of Rosabella—”
“Rosabella!” cried the Duke, bursting into the apartment with the fury of a maniac—“Rosabella! who speaks of Rosabella? She is a wretch, a vile, insidious wretch! She has destroyed me—she has conspired to destroy my child!”
And as he spake, the agonized old man sank into a chair, fainting with exhaustion, whilst a sanguine stream gushed from his mouth and nostrils, a blood-vessel having been ruptured by the violence of his emotions. Elvira shrieked in anguish, and, dreadfully terrified, threw herself upon her knees beside him, imploring him to speak to her, whilst Sir Ambrose, even more
