# The Mummy (Loudon)/Volume 2/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
The morning appointed for the election of the council of state was passed by Elvira in the most intense anxiety. For herself, she had no wish to be a Queen—nay, perhaps she trembled at the thought; but when she saw how earnestly it was desired by her father, and thought of the bitterness of his disappointment should she be rejected, her eyes filled with tears, and she felt ready to make any sacrifice to promote his happiness.
Thus, trembling with agitation, yet fearing alike every change, the fair Elvira sate, leaning her head upon her hand, whilst Sir Ambrose, whose rank did not entitle him to a vote, Dr. ​Coleman, and Henry Seymour, endeavoured to console her.
"My dear young lady," said the good doctor, "indeed, indeed, I think you distress yourself quite unnecessarily. With such supporters as your father and Lord Edmund, I do not think you can fail of success."
"You quite mistake me, doctor, I assure you," returned the princess; "I think not of the crown, yet it is not possible to express what I have suffered during the last few hours. Ere my father went to the council this morning, his agitation was so excessive that I feared it would destroy him, and my impatience for his return is become almost agony."
"Let me entreat your Highness to be composed," said Henry Seymour. "You torment yourself with vain terrors. I cannot suffer myself to imagine for a moment that the duke can be otherwise than successful."
"My dear child," observed Sir Ambrose, "exert your own good sense; nothing can be more foolish than to let imaginary horrors usurp any influence over your senses; you thus ​suffer doubly, and often the pains of anticipation exceed those of reality. But, see, here comes Father Murphy, and my little lively niece, Clara. Well, father, what news? Will the princess be Queen?"
"Och, and there can be no manner of doubt of it!" returned Father Murphy.
Elvira turned pale. "God in his mercy grant you may be mistaken!" said she.
"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 for ever 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 every thing 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 any thing bordering upon meanness."
"Is he handsome?" asked Clara, with infinite naïveté, 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. Every body 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; "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 for ever in my own breast."
"Do tell me, uncle!" cried Clara coaxingly; "I should so like to hear it, and every body 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 every body 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 any thing 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 alarmed than herself, ran screaming for assistance. Dr. Coleman and Henry Seymour were at hand. The duke, and his daughter, who had fainted, were conveyed to their separate apartments, attended by Clara, Sir Ambrose, and the doctor, whilst Henry Seymour and Father Murphy were left together.
"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 mean time, 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. Colman, good-humouredly, "I must not let you agitate my patient. Lord Edmund is only come, my Lord Duke, to take leave. He is going into the country to try to exert his influence amongst the electors."
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 crumbling monument of former greatness: the plaister effigies of the arms had cracked, and peeled off in places; whilst wild-flowers had taken root in the fissures, and reared their blooming heads, and twined their fantastic wreaths around the mouldering stone, hanging in wild luxuriant festoons over this emblem of decay, as though to mock the feeble efforts of man to perpetuate his name, and assert triumphantly the supremacy of Nature.
Father Morris was struck by the effect ​produced by this apparently simple circumstance, and he stood with his arms folded on his breast, attentively gazing upon the urn: "And for this," thought he, "yes, even for such perishable baubles as these, does man risk his immortal soul. For this, for honours that decay even whilst we gaze upon them; for fame, which the slightest breath may blow away, light as the thistle's down; for wealth and power, which, past a certain point, pall on the senses; and for ambition, we sacrifice all the mind holds dear to it. And what is ambition? What real happiness can fame, wealth, or power bestow? I will repent; it is not yet too late:—for worlds I would not harm that poor old man. Yes, he has still a heart. I am not wholly lost. Oh! how his look, his voice thrilled to my inmost soul, and awakened feelings I thought for ever dead. Oh, Julia! Julia! surely thy blest spirit would rejoice if angels can still feel for mortals, at my repentance. Oh, if one fatal act could but be recalled, and one fiend be satisfied, I might still be saved!"
​And overpowered by his emotions, even his firm heart was softened; he leant his head against the mouldering urn, and, hiding his face in his cowl, he wept. Blest were those bitter tears, and sweet were the sensations that stole over the mind of the monk as they flowed; for they were the first fruits of human feeling that had long touched that savage breast. Soothed by their healing balm, and half forgetting the cares that hung about him, Father Morris still reclined against the tomb; whilst mild and pleasing images floated before his fancy, and the fairy form of Happiness rose again upon his sight, and, though dim and indistinct by distance, seemed once more to beckon him forward through the mist of time. Lost in these meditations, the most delightful he had long indulged in, the father remained unheedful of the lapse of time, till he was startled by a tap upon his shoulder, and, turning, he beheld the giant form of Cheops.
"Fiend, demon, devil!" cried he, passionately; "avaunt! and tempt me not!"
The Mummy burst into one of his frightful ​laughs of derision. "What!" said he, "have you forgot your friend? your confidant? your confederate? And is it thus you treat him? Have you forgot our compact and your oath? which, if it were necessary, was to be sealed with blood?" (The friar shuddered, whilst Cheops continued:) "Pshaw! pshaw! talk not of temptation! The passions in that breast defy its power; for demons scarce could credit them. Fear not temptation then, most pure and most immaculate priest! for know, I can read thy heart: and I—yes, even I—shudder at the wickedness it conceals!"
"My feelings are changed—I repent!"
"Impossible! your repentance is but as a passing shade before a glowing fire, which, even if not removed, would be soon devoured by the flames!
"I tell you, my purpose is changed:—I will no longer plot against the duke; and Elvira, if she will, may be Queen."
"'And do you think a crown so enviable then,'" said the Mummy, repeating the friar's own words, once addressed to him, "'that you ​think you would injure her by depriving her of its cares?'"
"Devil!" cried the father, unable to resist the feelings these words had conjured up.
"And these are mortals," said Cheops; "they sin, and they repent! Thus adding hypocrisy to guilt, and doubling their crimes by the knowledge they have of their enormity!"
"Demon!" returned Father Morris; "the words of that old man wrung my heart; and I would sacrifice all the world can give, to throw myself upon his breast, and obtain his forgiveness."
"I believe you think so now," said Cheops maliciously; "but when Rosabella shall be Queen, and wealth and dignities shall be dispensed by Father Morris; when nobles shall bend humbly before him, and, hanging upon his smile, beg favours from his hand, then—"
"Curses on thee, fiend!" cried Father Morris, rushing from the grove, and pressing his cowl round his head with both his hands, as though ​he feared the horrid laugh of Cheops should echo in his ears, and sting him into madness.
"Weak, feeble worm!" exclaimed Cheops, with a scornful laugh, looking after the friar as he darted from his sight; "and yet this man boasts of his intellect; ay, and rules his fellow-men almost to his will! Degenerate wretches! O powerful Osiris! if from thy dread abode thou deignest to look down upon thy votary, pity him now! condemned to waste his days amongst this hated race! And thou, fell Typhon! dread avenging deity! say, will thy awful wrath accept of victims such as these? Alas! I fear vengeance like thine will not be thus appeased! and that thy never-dying fire will still gnaw my vitals. Oh! these mortals think they suffer: but what are their torments when compared to mine?"
As he spoke, he gnashed his teeth in fury, whilst again the expression of passions, too tremendous to be conceived by mortals, darkened on his brow.