“O Beauty!” thought Henry Seymour, as he watched the lovely form of Elvira, looking like some fair flower drooping on its stem, carried past him, “how omnipotent is thy power! Even the savage monarch of the forest, tamed by thee, has crouched beside a maiden’s feet! How heavenly does she look! pure as the immortal spirit, when, ere his breast was sullied by the grosser passions, man first conversed with God!”
“And sure if it’s the princess ye’re thinking of,” said Father Murphy, tired of being so long silent, “ye’ve rason to look so sadly after her, for it’s all over, and she’ll never be Queen.”
Henry Seymour started: the voice of the holy father sounded harsh and discordant in his ears; it had dispelled all his fairy dreams; and with a movement of impatience he threw open some folding doors, and walked into the garden. Father Murphy followed him.
“And where is it that ye’re going?” asked he.
“I would be alone,” said Henry in a commanding tone.
“And so ye shall be,” returned Father Murphy, “when I’m after laving ye; and that I will do in a whiffey. But—”
“Begone!” cried a peculiarly low, hollow voice which sounded close to the friar’s ear. He started, and as he looked up, the withering glance of Cheops fell full upon him; he screamed wildly and fled, uttering shrieks of terror.
Cheops looked after him with a scornful smile, and then fixing his superhuman eyes on Henry Seymour, he waited for him to speak. Few were the human beings who could have met that scowl unmoved. Those wild eyes, shaded as they were by the thick dark brows above them, always seemed to sink direct to the beholder’s soul: Henry Seymour, however, shrank not from their gaze. A long pause ensued.
“You wish for help,” said Cheops, “and it is in my power to assist you. I know you well, you are not what you seem; but fear not, and all your hopes shall be fulfilled.”
“Alas! how can they?” said the youth, “when I know them not myself.”
“Hear me!” returned Cheops; “you love Elvira, you would fain become her husband, and would yet not deprive her of the crown. Even now, you were revolving in your mind a scheme to reconcile these two apparently incompatible objects; but, besides innumerable minor obstacles, one great one destroys your plans—you have a father.”
“In the name of Heaven!” cried Henry Seymour wildly, “who and what art thou?”
But, ere he had finished speaking, the Mummy was gone. “Fiend! demon!” cried the youth, “what means this unreal mockery? But thou shalt not escape me thus.”
In the meantime, the Duke had somewhat recovered, and, by permission of Dr. Coleman, Lord Edmund and Sir Ambrose were admitted to his chamber. The reverend Fathers Morris and Murphy were there already.
“I believe it is quite against the rules,” said the doctor, “to allow visitors to a patient in the Duke’s state;—but he is so irritable, I fear keeping him in suspense might occasion a relapse.”
“I am sorry to see you thus, my dearest friend,” said Edmund, pressing the Duke’s hand warmly; “you have always been a second father to me, and, God knows! I love you as myself.”
The Duke fervently returned his pressure, but he could not speak. “My dear, dear friend!” said Sir Ambrose, the tears trembling in his eyes.
“Come! come!” said Dr. Coleman, good-humouredly, “I must not let you agitate my patient. Lord Edmund is only come, my Lord Duke, to take leave. He is going to join the army to try to exert his influence amongst the soldiers.”
The Duke shook his head.
“I must not have you despair,” said Sir Ambrose; “we shall beat them yet; not but that we must fight hard, for Rosabella is as crafty as a fox, and you see what a party she has made:—besides, she’s as selfish as her father.”
“No,” said the Duke feebly, and speaking with great difficulty; “Edgar was not selfish.”
“The influence of natural affection is astonishing!” said Sir Ambrose; “since it makes you speak thus of one who has so grossly injured you.”
“Edgar’s faults,” replied the Duke, scarcely able to articulate, “were rather those of circumstance than of feeling. I am convinced of it, and forgive him. Nay, if he were alive, and I could see him, I would clasp him to my heart.”
“Och!” said Father Murphy, “and that’s said just like yourself; for there’s nothing so like a Christian spirit as forgiving our enemies;—and so may Heaven prosper and bless all that love ye, and send all that hate ye to the Devil.”
“But how does that accord with the Christian spirit you were talking of?” asked Dr. Coleman, smiling.
“Och!” replied Father Murphy, “and it’s clane another thing. For none but the Devil’s own brats could hate the Duke, and he’s a right to his own, surely.”
Dr. Coleman, though not quite convinced by the sophistry of the holy father, did not attempt to controvert it; and the party, fearing to fatigue the Duke, soon after separated.
A few hours after this conversation, Father Morris was walking in one of the shadiest parts of the garden of Mr. Montagu, where the thick trees spread over his head, and by their umbrageous foliage, almost shut out the light of the sun. In the very centre of this gloomy grove, a funereal urn had been erected by one of the former possessors of the mansion, over which hung a weeping willow. The monument had once been gaudily adorned with bright colours and gilding, to mark the armorial bearings and dignity of the dust that mouldered below. Now, however, damp and neglect had hastened the work of Time in that secluded spot. The once white marble was stained with a dirty green, and moss had grown round the
