“I cannot imagine what is the matter with Clara?” said Sir Ambrose one day to Dr. Coleman; “I wish you would talk to her a little.—Here, Clara, my dear, do just step this way.—You will be quite shocked, doctor, at the change in her appearance. Poor girl! I don’t think she has ever properly overcome the fright she experienced at the first sight of the Mummy, for she has never seemed herself since—but here she comes.—Clara, I sent for you to speak to Dr. Coleman.”
Dr. Coleman was excessively struck by the alteration in Clara’s appearance. The beautiful, lively, blooming girl was changed to a pale shadow-like being, whose existence seemed to hang upon a thread, and whose fragile form the first ungentle breeze would annihilate.
“What is the matter with you, my dear child?” asked the doctor.
“Nothing,” said Clara, sighing.
“And I don’t know anything that can be worse,” said Father Murphy, who happened to be present; “for that’s the speech a young lady always makes when she’s in love, and I don’t know any disease that’s harder to cure.”
“In love!” cried Sir Ambrose, roused by that ill-omened word, which generally grates so harshly upon the ears of parents and guardians. “In love!” repeated he, looking earnestly at his niece; “who can she possibly be in love with?”
“Aye, that’s the question,” said the Duke; “for I’m sure since she has been here I have never trusted her from under my own eye; and I’ll defy her to fall in love without my knowing it. No, no, she cannot be in love.”
“Och! and that’s no reason at all,” cried Father Murphy, “for I never knew of watching doing any good at all in such matters.”
“Well, Clara,” said Dr. Coleman, “you hear Father Murphy’s opinion; do you plead guilty to the charge?”
Clara’s blushes became deeper, and her agitation so excessive, as Dr. Coleman fixed his eyes upon her, that, finding she could not bear his looks, she burst into tears, and hurried out of the room. Poor Clara! the fangs of the most cruel of passions had indeed pierced thy heart, though thou wast unconscious of it thyself!
It may be remembered, that, on the day of Edmund’s triumph, Clara had been forcibly struck by the fine figure and noble appearance of a youth, who had walked as prisoner in the procession. It was Prince Ferdinand; who, having formed a strong intimacy with Lord Edmund, had been an almost constant visitor at the house of the Duke ever since. Clara was just at the age when the human mind first begins to feel the want of something to love. In her own family, her affections had been thrown back upon herself; and, being driven to the regions of fancy to find an object to occupy her heart, she would often wander for hours together in the garden, picturing to herself adventures, which she would paint in all the vivid colours of imagination; till, lost in creations of her own, she would almost forget the tame, cold realities of life.
Of course, all these imaginary adventures could not exist without a hero; but Clara could never fix upon any definite form to bestow upon him, till she had seen Prince Ferdinand. Then, all her dreams seemed realized; and the secret God of her idolatry appeared to stand before her, in propriâ personâ. Clara was now perfectly happy; and as, from the prince’s frequent visits to her cousin, she now often passed whole days in his society, though he perhaps scarcely saw her, or at most regarded her but as a pretty child, yet she was satisfied: she saw him, and she heard him speak; what more was wanting to complete her dream of bliss?
Lord Edmund’s departure for the country, however, broke this magic charm. Prince Ferdinand came no more to the Duke’s; and Clara heard of him only as the devoted admirer of Rosabella. Jealousy till that moment had been scarcely known to her, even by name; but it now shot its fiercest pangs into her heart. She had never been accustomed to conceal her feelings, and they now destroyed her. The climax, however, was still to come. One day, as she was mournfully pacing the terrace in the garden, she was startled by the appearance of Prince Ferdinand himself: her agitation was excessive; her lips trembled, and she panted for breath; but he passed on without noticing her—yes, it was he, the cherished idol of her thoughts, the hero of her dreams;—and he had passed without seeing, or at least without seeming to behold her. Was it possible he could have seen her and passed so coldly?—was it possible she could be so totally indifferent to one who was all the world to her? Oh! there was madness in the thought! she could not bear her own reflections. What would become of her, she knew not—she cared not; and, in an agony of despair, she plunged into the thickest grove of the garden.
Though it was summer, the day was cold and chilly; a drizzling mist fell fast, and a thick fog from the river wrapped the grove in gloom. Heedless however of the weather, Clara hastened on to the spot where stood the marble urn; but as she approached it, she started back, for close beside it stood the hideous figure of Cheops, dimly seen through the gathering gloom.
“Fear not!” said he in a softened, though still hollow voice; “tell me your woes, and, if I can, I will assist you.”
“Alas! it is in vain,” cried Clara in an agony of despair too profound even to admit of her feeling the fear generally experienced by all who saw the Mummy; “no one can relieve me—I have no hope!”
Cheops smiled. “Poor child!” said he, “it is always thus when Eros first creeps into the soul, covering his arrows with roses, so that they are not seen till their barbed points rankle in the heart! I cannot tell how much I pity thee! So young and
