As the law, however, forbade any decisive promises till the actual day of election, there was still hope, though the friends of Elvira struggled on, rather from a wish not too hastily to abandon her cause, than from any rational, well-founded prospect of success.
In the midst of these anxieties, Elvira’s health indeed seemed rapidly declining. A weight which nothing could alleviate, hung upon her spirits; she made no effort to secure voters; but pale, silent, and melancholy, she glided about—the ghost of her former self. Still, however, she was lovely; the increased delicacy of her complexion, and shadowy lightness of her form, harmonized well with the general style of her beauty; whilst her fine eyes, shaded by their long silken lashes, only shone more brilliantly from the glowing hectic of the cheek below.
The time fixed for the important ceremony now rapidly approached; the election of the deputies was concluded, and the families of the Duke and Sir Ambrose prepared to return to town. The night, however, before they departed, the Duke gave a grand fête champêtre to the neighbouring gentry; and as a considerable number of the deputies were expected, he particularly enjoined Elvira to exert herself to the utmost to win their suffrages. Never perhaps had Elvira looked more beautiful than she did that night, as, pale, trembling and timid, she received her numerous guests; and never, perhaps, was effect more magical than that which her appearance produced. Her very diffidence and modesty attracted; and the reserve, with which she shunned, rather than sought the attention of the crowd, completed the enchantment.
“It is her fear of seeming to wish to influence us,” whispered one deputy to another, “that makes her treat us so coldly.”
“Yes,” replied the other; “and I like her the better for it. If she were to attempt to make herself agreeable, I should hate her; the Duke and Sir Ambrose have sickened us of that!”
The fête was given in the gardens of the Duke, which were beautiful and extensive, and now brilliantly illuminated by lamps suspended from the trees. There was something, however, not quite congenial to Elvira’s taste in thus marrying the gorgeous splendour of art to the simplicity of nature, and she sighed heavily as she watched the flaring lamps scorching the calm pale verdure of the trees.
“Now this is as it should be,” said the old Duke, as he led his daughter to the pavilion appointed for her to receive her guests; “Elvira now looks like herself. Does she not, Dr. Coleman?”
The doctor shook his head: “I fear,” began he—
“Oh! we will have no fears tonight!” cried the Duke gaily; “remember, Elvira, everything now depends upon you. Play the part of the smiling, condescending hostess; win the hearts of the deputies, and you will make that of your old father leap for joy. We shall have a gay party, shan’t we, doctor?” continued he, eyeing the groups as they advanced. “I wish your friend, Henry Seymour, were here amongst us.”
Elvira started, and deep blushes suffused her cheeks at the mention of this name. The doctor eyed her attentively, though he replied as though he had not noticed her agitation. “It was urgent business, you know, that obliged him to leave England.”
“He was a charming youth,” said the Duke; “so gay and yet so fearless. I think, however, I observed that his spirits seemed much depressed the last time I saw him.”
“You know he said it was the death—I mean the illness of a relation, that compelled him to go.”
“Young men don’t generally feel so much for the illness, or even death of old ones,” returned the Duke: “now, if I were to judge, doctor, I should think it far more likely it was some love affair. But we can’t stay talking about it now. I must go, and attend to my guests: and do you mind, Elvira, and make yourself agreeable.”
Poor Elvira, however, was, perhaps, never less fitted to obey her father’s injunctions than at this moment; for the conversation she had just heard, had quite deranged her nerves. Her father’s supposition inflicted a deep pang on her heart; and though she went through the duties of her station mechanically, her mind wandered to Henry Seymour.
It was a lovely night, and the general effect of the scene, as groups of elegantly-dressed people flitted to and fro through the lighted groves, was striking in the extreme. Beautiful flowering exotics decorated the pavilion of Elvira, and the balmy air that fanned their blossoms, seemed loaded with sweets; whilst the richly illuminated castle, rearing its lofty towers in awful grandeur in the distance, had the appearance of a fairy palace.
Elvira listlessly gazed upon the magic scene, till she felt almost fainting with the fatigue her situation as hostess imposed upon her; and she looked with a languid and almost despairing eye upon the crowds that came still pouring into the gardens. The throng now opened, and a tall and dignified figure found its way through the mass. It was Lord Edmund: he approached rapidly, and threw himself at Elvira’s feet: “My adored Elvira!” exclaimed he.
“You here, my Lord?” cried the princess; whose eyes, enfeebled by exhaustion, had not permitted her to recognise him till he was immediately before her: “I did not expect to see you here tonight!”
“Does my presence pain you then?” said Lord Edmund, looking at her attentively. “They told me you were ill, and I do indeed find you
