“Thou Machiavel!” cried Father Morris; “my friend, my dearest friend, my benefactor: oh! how I could fall down and worship thee!”
A sardonic smile curled the haughty lips of Cheops. “Learn then to obey in silence,” said he, “nor dare again to blame designs far beyond thy comprehension!”
XVII
The day following was appointed for the departure of the two families of the Duke and Sir Ambrose for the country; and the whole preceding evening was passed by the two old men in arranging their plans, and forming new schemes to ensure success. Elvira took no part in this conversation, though certainly the person most interested: she was thoughtful and distraite; she was too restless to remain in one place. She walked to the window; she returned, and she again sat down. She attempted to work, to read, to draw—all was in vain; all seemed tasteless and insipid. Again she went to the window, and, opening its folding doors, stepped out upon the balcony. It was a delightful night, and the air felt soft and warm. Vines, laden with their luscious fruit, twined from pillar to pillar of the balcony, forming a kind of verdant network, whilst the moon shone bright upon the lovely scene beyond. Below, a smooth green lawn stretched forth like a velvet carpet, bounded on each side by Chinese rose trees, the delicate tints of which looked still more transparently beautiful in the lovely light. Behind these, rose trees of a loftier height and deeper shade, whilst at the extremity of the lawn wound the river. The clear moonbeams trembled on the gently rippling stream, and gave a transparent brightness to the graceful foliage of a weeping willow, which hung over the water, and quivered in every passing breeze.
Elvira gazed upon the fair scene before her, and sighed heavily as she gazed. A gentle sigh softly echoed hers, and she started to find that Henry Seymour was standing beside her.
“How beautiful is Nature,” said he, “when undefiled by the follies and sins of man. Here one might forget the world, and all its busy turmoil of deceit. When one gazes thus upon the sublime and lovely face of Nature, how poor do all the arts, the ambition, and the pitiful contrivances of man appear. The soul seems elevated to its proper sphere, and to long to throw off the frail covering of clay, which yet chains it down to the grovelling passions of earth, and to soar triumphant to its native skies.”
His fine eyes were turned to heaven as he spoke; and Elvira gazed upon them and his noble countenance beaming with enthusiasm, till she quite forgot to reply.
“Do you not agree with me, Elvira!” said he, in a tone of the softest melody, fixing his eyes upon hers with a look that sank deep into her heart. Again she sighed deeply, but she could not speak. “Oh, Elvira,” continued he, taking her hand; “will you forget me? will not the remembrance of this night form a tie between us, when we shall be far, far apart?”
“Apart!” cried Elvira, almost with a shriek of surprise.
The youth sighed; and, gazing earnestly upon her blushing face, whispered tenderly, as he pressed her hand to his heart, “O that I could flatter myself sorrow mingled with that sigh.”
“Why, what is this?” said the old Duke, bustling to the window; “the doctor tells me you are going to leave us. Surely you might contrive to stay till after the election.”
“I am very sorry, Sir,” said the youth; “but the circumstance that calls me away—”
“Aye, aye, the doctor told me; a near relation dangerously ill, that can’t die in peace till he’s seen you. Well, well, my boy, such things must be; and if he’s doomed to die, I only wish him an easy death, and you a good legacy.”
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am to part with you,” said Sir Ambrose, who now advanced, “nor how sincerely I wish you good fortune.”
“Thank you, thank you, Sir,” said the youth: “alas! I now feel how poor words are to express my gratitude for all your kindness. I leave, however, Father Murphy behind, who will inform you from time to time of my welfare, and—”
“I am sorry to hasten you, Mr. Seymour,” said Dr. Coleman, who now approached; “but time wears apace.”
“True, true,” said Henry, “I had forgotten. Once more farewell. God bless you all!” and he hurried away, as though fearful of his own resolution if he ventured to stay another second. For the rest of the evening, Elvira was silent and abstracted; the suddenness of the blow seemed to have stunned her, and she felt like one wandering in a dream. Was he really gone? Should she never see him more? were questions she scarcely dared even to ask herself. “He was nothing to me, a mere common acquaintance,” she repeated incessantly; and yet she felt a wearisome void, a sickening disgust and impatience at everything around her, which she had never experienced before. “What can be the matter with me,” said she peevishly; “I shall never see him again; and it is the excess of weakness to feel an interest in the fate of one, who is evidently so indifferent about me; and yet he seemed affected when he said we were about to part. Was he really so? But of what consequence is it to me whether he were so or not. I shall never see him more.” And Elvira sighed involuntarily at the thought. “I am devoted to other prospects. I—in short, I will think of him no more.” And in pursuance of this magnanimous resolution, she thought of nothing else all night.
The following day, Elvira and her friends went into the country; but, as Cheops had predicted, the Duke and Sir Ambrose proved quite unequal to the task they had undertaken, and they only lost their popularity by the attempt. Men were disgusted to
