# The Mummy (Loudon)/Volume 3/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
In the mean time, Roderick had been completely victorious in Spain. He had reached Madrid and established Don Pedro as King; and was now on his return to Seville, where he had left M. de Mallet and his charming daughter. Edric, of course, accompanied him; but the rest of the army had marched to Cadiz to embark, the Greek page only attending upon his master.
"Well, Edric!" said the King, laughing, as they approached Seville, "does not your heart beat with pleasure at the thought of quitting Spain?"
"How can you torment me so, Roderick?"
"Torment you! why I thought you would be in raptures; though I must own, if you are, ​they are the most melancholy raptures I ever beheld in my life."
"This raillery is not generous. It is unworthy of you. I own I love Mademoiselle de Mallet—but I despair."
"And why?"
"Alas! how can I ask her to share the fortunes of a banished man?"
"Am not I your friend?"
"I know it; but I cannot brook dependence even upon you."
"I do not wish you to be dependent; but what can I do to serve you? Shall I make war upon this cross old father of yours?"
"Oh, do not speak of him so lightly! Say what you please of me, but spare my father!"
"I respect your feelings; and as I can say no good of him, I will have the discretion to be silent."
Edric felt no inclination to reply to this remark, and they travelled on in perfect silence till they reached Seville. Here they found every thing changed: the town had been partially rebuilt, and the lovely groves of orange and myrtle trees in the vicinity, glowing with ​all the rich luxuriance of a southern spring, gave no idea of the scene of ruin and desolation it had before presented. They inquired for the house of M. de Mallet, and upon entering the inner square, or court-yard, they found him seated under the piazza that stretched round it, enjoying the evening breeze, whilst his fair daughter was occupied in reading to him.
A fountain played in the centre of the court, its sparkling spray descending in silvery showers; whilst innumerable orange trees and flowering shrubs, which were placed around, perfumed the air with their delicious fragrance; and a light awning, spread over the roof of the court, mellowed the light to a soft though glowing tinge, which gave an air of voluptuous languor to the whole scene.
The delight felt by M. de Mallet and his daughter at again seeing their deliverers was enthusiastic; and though it was most openly expressed by the father, the burning cheeks and sparkling eyes of Pauline spoke quite as intelligibly her silent transport.
"We have long expected you," said M. de Mallet; "for I cannot describe how anxious ​we are to leave this country. Pauline has wearied Heaven with prayers for your safety, and as I have felt my strength decay daily, I too have prayed for your return, for I have a secret to confide to you that weighs heavily upon my spirits."
"To confide to us?" cried Edric.
"Yes, to you," said M. de Mallet. "It is true I have not known you long; but some circumstances make men better acquainted in a month than the ordinary routine of life does in years. Thus, the kindness with which you have treated me, and the important events in which I have seen you engaged, have made me consider you as old and tried friends, and have induced me to confide to you a secret which I have hitherto guarded with the utmost scrupulous fidelity."
"What can you mean?" asked Edric in astonishment; whilst Pauline gazed upon her father with a look of the most intense anxiety.
"Pauline is not my child!" said the old man impressively. Pauline uttered a cry of agony that thrilled through the souls of her auditors, and threw herself at his feet, looking up in his ​face with an expression of the bitterest anguish, as though she implored him not to desert her. M. de Mallet's agitation was equal to her own, and, as he fondly regarded her, he continued: "Yes, miserable being that I am! I am not her father. Alas! often when I have beheld her enduring hunger and thirst for my sake; when I have seen her delicate frame exhausted with fatigue or shivering with cold, whilst still with angelic sweetness she has seemed to forget her own sufferings, and to think only of alleviating mine—oh, then, how I have burned to tell her that I did not deserve her kindness, and that I was an alien from her blood!"
"Oh father! my dearest father!" cried Pauline, her eyes streaming with tears; "what do you not deserve from me? What is there that I could do, that could half express my love and gratitude? Alas! though I am not your child, the tender care you took of my infancy your kindness, your affection—" Pauline could not continue, her sobs impeded her utterance.
"My dear child!" said M. de Mallet: and folding her in his arms, he mingled his tears with hers; whilst Roderick and Edric were both ​too powerfully affected to interrupt their sorrows, and stood gazing upon them in silence, though both ardently desired an explanation of this seeming mystery. After a short pause, M. de Mallet resumed: "I see the astonishment I have caused you, and my heart bleeds for the pain I have been compelled to inflict upon Pauline, but I could not die in peace without disclosing the truth."
"Oh, do not talk of dying!" cried Pauline, still clinging to him with the fondest affection.
"And who are the parents of Mademoiselle de Mallet?" demanded Roderick.
"Alas! I know not," returned the Swiss. "About twenty years ago, I was travelling in England with my wife, who, afflicted with an incurable disease, had been advised to try the skill of English physicians, they being considered the most able in the world. One night, my poor wife being exhausted with fatigue, we stopped at a small inn in a village near the sea coast. The night was tempestuous, and a blazing light in the kitchen tempted us to wait there whilst the parlour was prepared for us. A woman sate near the fire, with a lovely little ​girl, about two years old, playing at her feet. My poor wife was always passionately fond of children, though Heaven had never blest us with any; and attracted by the exquisite beauty of the little cherub, she took it in her arms and began to caress it.
"'Is your honour fond of children?' asked the woman with an evident affectation of vulgarity.
"'I dote upon them,' replied my wife. 'Oh Louis,' continued she, addressing me in French, 'if I could have such an angel as this to supply my place to you, I think I could be resigned to die.'
"'If your honours like the child, you may have her,' said the woman.
"I started: but recollecting that, from the over education of the lower classes in England, they were all linguists; the circumstance of the woman's understanding what we said, did not appear extraordinary. 'She is my child,' continued the woman; 'I live hard by—and have only taken shelter here from the storm. The landlady knows me very well. My husband has been dead some months; and, as I find it hard work to maintain myself and the child too, I ​own I shall be glad to place her in hands where she is sure to be taken care of.'
"The woman's tale seemed plausible; and my wife and I were easily induced to conclude the bargain that gave us possession of Pauline! We visited the cottage of this woman the next morning, and found her story true, excepting that she had only lived there a few weeks. This, however, appeared immaterial; as indeed she had not fixed any definite time for the period of her residence, and gave some reason which I have forgotten for having left her former abode when her husband died. Soon after this, we left England, taking Pauline with us: her beauty increased with her years; and when my poor wife died, which she did a few months after our return to Switzerland, Pauline formed the sole consolation of my life. Two or three years afterwards, a friend of mine visiting England called by my desire upon the reputed mother of Pauline. He found the cottage deserted, and the landlady of the inn told him, that the woman had left the place a few hours after we had done so ourselves.
"This circumstance, combined with the ​evidently affected vulgarity of the woman, and the elegance and delicacy of Pauline, has always induced me to suspect I was the dupe of a deception, and that the child had been stolen from parents in a superior rank of life to that in which I found her. Whether my conjectures are correct, I know not; but when I have surveyed the beauty and graces of my child, my breast has smote me for confining her to my own humble station, and I have determined, whenever circumstances would permit, to take her to England, and endeavour, if possible, to elucidate the mystery that hangs over her destiny."
"Accompany me then to Ireland," said Roderick, "and when you have stayed there till you are tired, if you still wish to prosecute your researches, I will give you letters of introduction to the English Court, and I sincerely hope we may find our fair friend to be a princess of the blood at least."
In the mean time, M. de Mallet's narrative had caused the greatest agitation in the breasts of Edric and Pauline. "Not his daughter!" thought the former; "whose can she be, then?" ​and his imagination ran wild amongst a variety of dreams and fancies, each more extravagant than the last: for, to suppose the elegant and accomplished Pauline the daughter of a mere peasant was impossible; and the transporting hope that she might yet be his, with the consent of his father and the approbation of all his friends, danced before him; whilst Pauline, uncertain what to think, and unable to analyze her own sensations, felt, even amidst the desolation in which the avowal of M. de Mallet had involved her, a faint emotion of pleasure still throb at her heart, when she reflected that now her country was that of her lover's, and that it was possible—she dared go no farther, for her senses seemed unable to support the intoxicating thoughts of what might follow.
It had been agreed that our friends should remain a few days at Seville, to give the army at Cadiz time to recover from the fatigue of their march previous to their embarkation; but the morning after their arrival, a courier arrived with despatches from England, which made Roderick impatient to leave Spain immediately. He was at breakfast when these letters, which ​had been forwarded to him from Cadiz, were put into his hands. He changed colour, and, starting from his seat, begged Edric to follow him into the garden.
"Good God, what is the matter?" asked M. de Mallet.
"Nothing, nothing!" replied Roderick; "but that I must return to Ireland immediately."
And waving his hand as though to repel farther inquiry, he left the room; Edric followed in silence. "Edric," said the Irish Monarch, throwing himself into a garden-seat and burying his face in his hands; "Elvira is dethroned, and perhaps murdered, all owing to my cursed folly in remaining so long in Spain."
"Elvira!" exclaimed Edric, looking at his friend in the most profound amazement; for he could not imagine why he took so deep an interest in her fate.
"I see your astonishment, Edric," resumed the King; "but I have not now time to explain whys and wherefores. Suffice it to say, that I adore Elvira, and if she perish, I will not survive her."
A piercing shriek burst from the thicket as ​he uttered these words, and both Edric and Roderick sprang involuntarily to the spot—it was vacant; they searched the wood, but no creature was to be seen.
"It was fancy," said Edric.
"It was the Mummy," murmured the King, "come to chide me for doubting his promises for an instant."
"The Mummy!" cried Edric; "good God! what do you mean?" and he gazed with horror upon the wild and haggard countenance of his friend, who he seriously believed had become distracted. His look recalled the fleeting senses of Roderick, and with a ghastly smile he replied, "I am not mad, though I have enough to make me so. We must return to Ireland without a moment's delay, and there reinforce my army. Elvira must be restored immediately, for her life is in danger from every moment's delay."
"I hope not," said Edric; "for, though I detest Rosabella, I do not think her capable of assassination."
"If she be not, Father Morris is," returned Roderick, in a low voice, with a look of intense feeling.
​Edric turned pale.—"In the name of God, tell me who and what you are?" said he earnestly; "and how you have obtained this close knowledge of the English Court."
"I am called the Devil's favourite, you know," returned Roderick, smiling, in spite of his distress, at his friend's embarrassment, "and it would be very hard if my patron did not give me a hint now and then upon subjects of importance."
"How can you jest upon such a topic?" asked Edric reproachfully.
"True," returned Roderick; "as you say, the subject is not one to joke upon: for we must quit Seville in a few hours, and leave M. de Mallet and the pretty Pauline to follow us under the escort of my Greek page; or rather, what perhaps you would prefer, you shall stay behind to take care of them, and Alexis and I will proceed alone."
"Oh Roderick!" exclaimed Edric, "how can you imagine I could leave you?"
"Not even for Pauline?" asked the King, smiling.
"Not even for Pauline," repeated Edric ​firmly; "my love for you surpasses even the devoted love of woman; and whilst I breathe, neither peril nor pleasure shall tear me from your side."
"My dear Edric!" said Roderick; the tears glistening in his eyes: the next instant, however, he dashed them away, and added gaily, "But come, we must go and make our bows, and take our leave like pretty behaved cavaliers; and you may trust my discretion, Edric, that I will not tell Pauline of your want of gallantry."
The Greek page looked the image of despair, when he heard his master's commands that he should remain behind; and passions, dark as the lowering heavens before a storm, hung upon his brow. He offered no opposition, however, to his master's will; and crossing his arms upon his breast, bent his head in token of obedience.
The voyage of Edric and Roderick to Ireland was rapid and favourable in the extreme; and on their arrival, their reception was enthusiastic. The Irish are proverbially warmhearted, and the rapture with which they now greeted their victorious Monarch defies ​description. Triumphal arches were erected, the walls were hung with tapestry, and the streets strewed with flowers, to greet his entry into his capital. Roderick did not refuse these honours; but it was evident to all who knew him well, that his mind was occupied with other things; and, in fact, he took his measures so promptly and so decidedly, that, by the time his army, with M. de Mallet and his daughter, Dr. Entwerfen, and the Greek page, arrived from Spain, he had assembled a force quite sufficient for the restoration of the Queen.
The very day that Elvira fled in terror from the power of her rival, the combined army of Roderick began its march to hasten to her assistance; and it had nearly advanced through the whole of the tunnel under the sea, which separates the two kingdoms, without opposition. Orders were now given for the soldiers to rest for the night, and tents were rapidly pitched for that purpose. Roderick, however, could not sleep; and he stood with his arms folded, gazing at the singular scene before him, the innumerable torches fixed against the dark sides of the tunnel shedding their lucid light ​around, and showing distinctly the long line of white tents that stretched as far as the eye could reach; whilst the distant roaring of the sea above their heads, sounded like the hoarse murmur of gathering thunder.
Whilst Roderick was thus engaged, Edric perceived a group of people enter the cavern from the English side, and eagerly inquire for the King. They were brought before him; they were four in number: but one stayed behind, holding their horses, which looked dreadfully jaded and distressed; whilst the other three, a man and two women, approached and threw themselves at Roderick's feet: "Good God! it is Elvira!" exclaimed he.
"Henry Seymour!" screamed the Queen, and fell senseless upon the ground.
In the mean time all was anarchy in England. Disgusted with the world and with himself, the King secluded himself from society, and passed his time entirely upon a small estate adjoining the chateau of his father. Sir Ambrose and he often met; but they never spoke, though their hearts yearned towards each other. With all his good qualities, Sir Ambrose was prejudiced ​and obstinate; he loved his son passionately, but he could not endure a rebel, and the poor old man was fast sinking into the grave, for want of the very consolation he would not condescend to receive.
Edmund also was wretched: the habits of respect in which he had been always brought up towards his father, prevented his daring to intrude upon him against his will, though he would willingly have relinquished his empty title of King, and have exposed himself to all the miseries of absolute want, to have obtained the privilege of throwing himself upon his father's neck, and receiving his forgiveness. The title of Edmund was, indeed, now only an empty one. Rosabella alone exercised the power of a Sovereign, and her haughty temper and capricious tyranny made her universally detested. Monarchs to be respected must be firm; and whilst they continue to inspire respect, they may sometimes venture to be tyrants. But Rosabella was no longer respected; he was despised; and the Commons finding themselves oppressed, and their complaints completely unattended to, began to regret the gentle sway of Elvira. "She, at ​least," said they, "treated us with kindness; and if she did refuse our petitions, it was with gentleness. But now we are treated with scorn, and trampled beneath the feet, not only of the Queen, but of her confessor. We will not, we cannot bear it."
Sad and mournful also was the life of the Duke of Cornwall: for days and hours he would wander in the gardens of his chateau with his friend Sir Ambrose, and lament sorrowfully over the complete destruction of his hopes.
In these walks they often saw Edmund, gliding at a distance like a solitary ghost, and plunging amongst the trees when he thought himself observed. "How changed Edmund is become!" said the duke. "Alas! how guilt corrodes the heart! He has destroyed my daughter, and he is now suffering the penalty of his crime."
"Say not so," rejoined Sir Ambrose, who could not bear to hear his son blamed by any one but himself; "if Elvira had not eloped with Prince Ferdinand—"
"Eloped with Prince Ferdinand!" cried the duke,—"I did not expect this. What! can you, Sir Ambrose, join in the general voice? ​Will you slander poor Elvira? Elvira, whom you have known from her cradle—whom you have loved and fondled as your own child?"
"Patience! patience! my good friend."
"I have no patience, I can have no patience, when I hear my daughter scandalized—my poor motherless girl. Remember, if she should err, she lost her mother in her childhood—she has been always brought up with me, and as she has been the playfellow of your sons, from her earliest infancy, perhaps she may not act according to those rigid restraints imposed upon her sex, by those who have been always secluded from the society of men. But she means well, Sir Ambrose, she means well always, and I'd answer for her virtue with my life. Besides, you know, she has always been used to have an intimate friend of the other sex;—You know Edmund—"
"No one ever blamed her whilst Edmund was her friend."
"And who dares blame her now? No one, I trust, whilst I have an arm and a sword ready to defend her."
"My good friend, you reason like a fond ​father; who, though he sees, is willing to excuse the faults of his offspring: your judgment condemns Elvira, even more than mine."
"No, no,—if I thought her wrong, I should not blame her as you do. Your partiality to Edmund blinds you, and you fancy my poor child has a thousand faults, because she was not sensible to the merit of your son."
"You mistake me quite; my opinion of Elvira would be just the same if Edmund were not in existence: though I acknowledge frankly, that every time I see his fine noble countenance, worn with care—his pale cheeks and sunken eyes—I feel a pang through my inmost soul. It is a strange infatuation that she should repulse my noble boy, and yet elope so readily with a youth she scarcely knew."
"Take care what you say, Sir Ambrose take care what you say,—I will not have my child insulted."
"I do not wish to insult her—I speak but the truth—I do not even think her guilty, though the whole Court rings with her shame."
"Guilt! shame! And this to me? Oh God! Oh God! I have lived too long! To hear my ​child thus basely slandered, and be unable to resent it!"
"Base! and is this the conclusion of our long friendship—Base! and have I lived to be called base, for merely blaming a coquettish wanton?"
"Wanton!" cried the duke, and transported by his passion he struck Sir Ambrose violently. The aged baronet could not endure this insult; his sword flew from his scabbard, and in a few seconds these ancient friends were engaged in mortal combat.
It was a shocking thing to see these two old men, their white hair streaming in the wind their venerable features wrinkled with age, and their feeble frames tottering for support—fighting with all the vindictive fury of youth. How fearful is the storm of passion! How vile the human heart when left to its own workings! Every gentler feeling was extinguished in the breasts of the two veterans, and only brutal rage remained. For some time victory was doubtful; but at last Sir Ambrose fell, and in another moment the sword of his antagonist would have passed through his bosom, had not ​a powerful arm arrested the stroke. It was Edmund! he had heard the clashing of swords at a distance, and, rushing to the spot, arrived just in time to prevent the fatal blow.
"Oh my father!" cried Edmund with a thrill of horror, "for God's sake, do not die till you have forgiven me! He hears me not!" cried he, wringing his hands in unutterable anguish. "Oh, for mercy's sake, speak! Do not destroy me."
Sir Ambrose feebly opened his languid eyes: "Farewell," said he, faintly: "God bless you!"
"Oh, do you forgive me!" shrieked Edmund, falling upon his knees.
"I do," said Sir Ambrose: "and—the—duke;" the words feebly ebbed from his lips; and, as he spoke, the fearful rattle of death gurgled in his throat, and with a convulsive sob he expired.
Sadly did the duke now gaze upon his fallen foe, but when he found him dead he was distracted. Madly he tore his hair, and threw himself upon the corpse; but his agonies were in vain, the vital spark was extinct. Edmund stood also for some seconds gazing upon the ​body, without any distinct idea existing in his mind; but when the whole sad reality rushed upon him, he could not endure his own thoughts, and darted away with the velocity of lightning. The duke heeded not his departure; he had thrown himself upon the body of his departed friend, and the whole universe seemed to contain for him only that bloody corpse. "I have killed him! I have killed him!" cried he, "I have killed him!"
His fearful shrieks soon drew many persons to the spot. "I have killed him!" screamed the duke, in answer to all interrogations; "I have killed him!" Abelard was one of the first collected round this mournful spectacle. "What can we do?" said he to Father Murphy,—"the case seems desperate."
"I've killed him!" again screamed the duke in agony.
"He's entirely mad," said Father Murphy, "and there's no doubt of it."
"I've killed him!" repeated the duke, with a still more piercing shriek; "I've killed him!"
"Oh he is mad," cried all the spectators, whilst they attempted to remove him from the ​spot. With infinite difficulty they succeeded, he still clinging to the corpse, and screaming "I've killed him!" till his voice was lost in the distance.
Whilst these scenes were transacting at the English Court, the army of Roderick marched through the kingdom without opposition, for the people every where, tired of the tyranny of her rival, received Elvira with open arms, and the chief nobility vied with each other in opening their houses to entertain her and her suite as she passed along.
It was a fine evening in March, and the night was clear, though cold, when Elvira, with hurried steps, paced the fine terrace belonging to the castle of one of these noblemen. The Queen was evidently lost in reflection, and as she occasionally stopped, she threw back her long hair and looked up to the sky with an air of intense anxiety. "It is a lovely night!" murmured she: "Heaven grant that peace may still attend us! yet, I fear I know not what of danger. Oh, if the forces of Rosabella should resist—and Roderick should fall—and for me—"
She paused, for the thought seemed too ​dreadful for endurance. The moon shone brightly in the heavens, and the stars sparkled like diamonds on the clear blue sky; whilst Elvira, raising her eyes to heaven, and clasping her hands together, seemed lost in silent prayer. Her fair face, shaded by her long black veil, looked even more lovely than usual, in the soft light thrown upon it; and, as she stood thus apparently quite absorbed in inward devotion, she seemed almost a celestial being descended for the moment upon earth, and about to remount to her native skies.
A figure, wrapped in a dark long cloak, now appeared at the extremity of the terrace, and advanced slowly towards the Queen. Two other figures also emerged from the shade, and followed, though at a considerable distance. Elvira was not aware of their approach till the first figure stood behind her, and seizing her arms, threw a cloak over her head to stifle her cries; and then, with the help of the others, was hurrying her off. At this moment, Roderick sprang actively upon the terrace, and with one blow from his vigorous arm, felled the first assailant to the ground. Then, ​drawing his sword, the enraged Monarch would have instantly dispatched him, had not the supposed assassin uttered a piercing scream, and, clinging round his knees, implored mercy. The moon shone full upon the boy's face, and disclosed to Roderick's astonished eyes the features of the dumb page. "Alexis!" cried he.
The boy sprang from the ground.
"Roderick!" screamed he; "then I am ruined!"
"Stay!" returned the King, grasping his arm, and preventing his escape; "who, and what are you? Speak, or dread my vengeance."
The boy's heart beat almost to suffocation; every nerve throbbed with the most violent emotion, and drawing a dagger from his belt, he attempted to plunge it into the heart of Roderick. "Ah!" cried the King, starting aside in time to prevent the blow; whilst ere he could prevent it, the page had buried the weapon in his own bosom.
"Good God!" exclaimed Roderick, "what can this mean?"
The whole of this scene had passed with such rapidity, that Elvira had scarcely time to ​recover herself, or to be aware of what had happened. The two assistants had fled the moment they perceived the King; and Elvira, with trembling steps and pallid cheeks, approached the spot where Roderick knelt beside the bleeding page.
Kneeling beside him, she attempted to staunch the blood which flowed rapidly from the wound, but in vain; for the boy's life was evidently fast ebbing.
Brian, a servant of the King, who had followed his master to the terrace, aided her endeavours; but Roderick remained fixed and immoveable, his eyes chained as by the power of fascination upon the page, who now slowly unclosed his eyelids, and heaving a deep sigh, fixed his languid eyes upon those of Roderick.
"Zoe!" cried the King.
"Yes," returned the page, gasping for breath, and speaking with difficulty; "Zoe! I am indeed that wretch. I loved you, Roderick; I would have died for you. I do die for you; but—but—Elvira—"
"What meant your outrage upon her?"
"What did it mean?" cried Zoe, her eyes ​flashing fire, and her whole frame supported by a supernatural energy; "did I not see that you loved her, and could I endure to resign you to another? No," continued she, starting from the ground; "I would have killed her, and, had she perished, I should have died contented."
The violence of the action made the blood gush in torrents from her wound; and, pale and feeble, her failing eyes closed. She staggered a few paces, fell, heaved one convulsive struggle, and Zoe was no more!
Sadly did Roderick gaze upon that form which had so lately thrilled with feeling—now cold and inanimate at his feet: the victim of passion lay before him. Her hopes, her fears, her rage, and her love, had passed away, and there her body remained a senseless clod of clay, till it should be resolved into its original elements. By this time, some of the servants of the castle, who had been summoned by Brian, approached; and the old Earl of Warwick, in whose castle the fatal scene had taken place, rushed upon the terrace, calling wildly upon his people to save the Queen.
"Is it the Lady Elvira that ye mane?" asked ​Brian; "Och an't plase yere honour, and she's safe, every inch of her."
"And what has been the matter?" asked the Earl.
"Och and your lordship may well ask that; but the divil a bit any body can tell you but one, and that's myself. Ye see, my master, his most gracious Majesty, and me were walking in the garden; that is, he was walking and I was watching, for fear any harm should happen to him; for the life of such as he isn't to be trusted to chance in a strange country, and I guess he was thinking of the Queen, though he never said nothing about it. And so when we came near the terrace, it was so dark, ye couldn't see yere hand before you. And then the moon peeped through the clouds, like a pretty face looking through a ground-glass window. And then she came out as bright as a silver mirror; and the Queen looked so pretty as she stood praying, that my master couldn't find it in his heart to interrupt her; and for me, I wasn't the man to be even thinking of such a thing. And then two black-looking spalpeens, bad luck to them! stole out behind her, and there wasn't ​two, for there were three of them—with never a livin' soul beside, to be seen in respect of being near her: but God never would suffer a rale lady like herself to want a friend to comfort her when she'd be in naad—and my master wouldn't let her be after coming to harm, for he jumped upon the terrace entirely like a hound springing at the deer—and saved her, which nobody but himself could have done like it, for the very life of 'em. And when I came, there was the man lying dead that would have killed the princess, and it turned out he wasn't a man at all, but a woman."
The story of Zoe is soon told. Bred in a warm climate, and naturally enthusiastic in her disposition, she was the child of passion. The misfortunes she had experienced in Greece, by depriving her of all she loved, had thrown her affections back upon her own bosom, and they had preyed upon themselves.
To give vent to the feelings that oppressed her, she created an image of perfection in her own mind, and this she worshipped in secret.—When she saw Roderick, however, all was changed; a new world seemed to open upon ​her. The idol of her fancy, indeed, stood before her; for Roderick realized all her wildest dreams. He became her god. His heroism, his person, his talents, caught her imagination, and the violence of her passions completed the delirium of her soul. Notwithstanding, however, the intensity of her feelings, no thought of grosser texture contaminated her mind. Her love was as that of angels, pure and undefiled:—she regarded Roderick as a thing enshrined, almost too holy for mortal vows to worship; and she would have considered it sacrilege to dare even to think of him as a husband.
With these feelings, she had watched over him, with almost a mother's love; and when she informed him of the conspiracy against him, she resolved, with all the romantic self-devotion of a fond woman, to follow him unknown and in disguise; without any plan, however, but that of being near him, or any hope but that of contributing to his happiness. Money, and the assistance of one or two devoted servants, who contrived to follow in Roderick's train, had enabled her to accomplish this. She ​had felt a momentary jealousy at his anxiety for Pauline, and she had been half induced to favour the plots of the Spanish general, to take Roderick prisoner; but that feeling had worn away, when she discovered the mutual passion of Edric and the fair Swiss. Now the case was different, and, maddened by the thought of Roderick's devotion to Elvira, she had determined to destroy her. Her trusty Greeks would have assisted her plan, but they fled at her detection.
Inexpressibly shocked at what had taken place, Roderick could scarcely bear again to separate himself, even for an instant, from Elvira. "Do not bid me leave you," said he, looking at her with the fondest affection; "You shall accompany me, even to the field. Oh! would to Heaven you would give me a right to be near you for ever."
"Alas! alas!" replied Elvira; "I tremble for the result of this fatal contest. Oh that I were but a humble peasant!"
"Would to Heaven you were!" cried Roderick, with enthusiasm; "for happy as I always am in your presence, never do I feel so ​much so, as when we seem, as at present, secluded from the world. Then I could forget your rank, and all the artificial restraints grandeur has thrown around you; and without remembering that I am Roderick, and you Elvira, think only of a pair of simple lovers, whose weightiest care was their attendance upon their flocks, and whose only happiness consisted in loving and being beloved."
"Alas, Roderick!" replied Elvira; "do not speak of love. After the dreadful scene we have just witnessed, I tremble at the passion. No, be my friend, Roderick. Friendship is more sure than love. On that, we may confidently rely; but passion destroys itself with what it feeds upon—intense feelings cannot last."
"Oh Elvira! say not so," cried Roderick, fixing his eyes earnestly upon her blushing countenance—whilst she, trembling and agitated, betrayed by her confusion the passion she would have fain concealed.
How feeble are words to express the transports of such a moment! 'Tis the oasis in the desert of life—the bright gem that casts a radiance even upon the dross with which it is ​surrounded. Man is born to misery—thick clouds hang over him, and obscure his path—dangers await him at every step. One single ray alone breaks through the gloom—bright as the fairy dreams of childhood; but, alas! equally fleeting. 'Tis love—pure, passionate, unsophisticated love—the only glimpse of heaven vouchsafed on earth to man. And this was what was now felt by Roderick and Elvira, as he, throwing himself at her feet, vowed eternal constancy, and persuaded her to acknowledge that her hopes of earthly happiness centered in him alone.
But why do I profane such a scene, by attempting to describe it? Those who have loved, have only to recollect what they felt upon a similar occasion:, and to those who have not,—Heaven help them!—not all the eloquence of Cicero himself could give the least idea of any thing of the kind. Suffice it to say, that before Roderick and Elvira parted, she consented, if success should crown their efforts, to become his bride.
The state of England, at this moment, defies description. The death of Sir Ambrose and ​the insanity of the Duke of Cornwall were events so shocking in themselves, that it was not surprising they produced a violent effect upon the minds of the people. Edmund had disappeared, and Rosabella, instigated by Father Morris and Marianne, became every day more rapacious and tyrannical; whilst even they quarrelled amongst themselves, and wretchedness prevailed throughout the kingdom.
This was the state of the public mind, when the news of the invasion of Roderick first reached the ears of Rosabella.
"Marianne!" she exclaimed, "summon Father Morris. We are ruined," continued she, as the reverend father entered—"absolutely ruined. Roderick is invincible, and he supports Elvira! Where is Cheops?"
"Ay!" returned Father Morris, "where is Cheops? It is that accursed fiend that has led us on to destruction? His counsels have destroyed us; for, though plausible in appearance, they have been as deceitful as the oracles of old."
"Yet you trusted him!" said Rosabella. ​"I hated him from the first; but you trusted him. You thought him all perfection: he flattered your vanity, and you weakly believed every thing that he asserted."
"Weakly!" cried Father Morris, his lips quivering with rage.
"Yes, weakly!" returned Rosabella; "for a child would have seen through his artifices; but you were deceived by them, and have been his dupe, his tool, his plaything."
"This to me!" cried Father Morris, gnashing his teeth together with passion.
"Yes, to you," returned Rosabella coolly; "for why should I longer conceal my sentiments? I will no longer be your slave. You have made me deserted by my husband—hated by my subjects—and detested by myself. I will, therefore, no longer follow your councils; from henceforward I will act for myself. Adieu, we meet no more as friends!"
And as she spoke, she walked out of the room, leaving the priest motionless with astonishment.—"This to me!" cried he to Marianne, as soon as he recovered himself sufficiently to speak—"to me, who have sacrificed every ​thing for her! Did I not place her on the throne? Have I scrupled even to imbrue my hands in blood for her sake? Have I not committed crimes for her that weigh heavily upon my soul? Did I not poison Claudia? and should I not also have destroyed Elvira, if Cheops had not saved her? Oh, Marianne, am I awake? Is it not a cruel dream? Is it possible it can be Rosabella! Rosabella! my Rosabella! my child! my own Rosabella! that uses me thus?"
"Hush! hush!" cried Marianne; "'tis but the passion of a moment. Be composed. Rosabella still loves you; but, irritated by the desertion of Edmund, and the news she has just heard—"
"Oh, Marianne!" interrupted the friar in agony, "you may easily reason, for you never had a child; but if Heaven had blessed us with one, you might have felt for my anguish."
"I do feel for you," returned Marianne: "but does she not treat me with equal scorn? Since the absence of Edmund she has become distracted, and I, who know the agonies a woman endures when she finds herself ​deserted by the man she adores, can feel for her."
"And who first gained her Edmund? Would he ever have become her husband, had not I induced him?"
"I believe not; neither would she have been Queen but for you."
"No—no. Oh! how I have toiled for that ungrateful girl! How I have adored her!"
"You have been a devoted father."
"Have I not, Marianne? I have at least endeavoured to expiate my sin. I have done penance—I have spent nights unnumbered in painful vigils. I have scourged my body, till the feeble flesh has shrunk beneath the torture; yet still my mind remains unappeased. Remorse still gnaws my vitals! Oh, Marianne! how poor is earthly grandeur to a mind diseased!"
In this manner did these companions in iniquity confer; till at length, hating each other and themselves, they gave vent to mutual upbraiding, and parted with undisguised hatred and contempt. Such, indeed, is the disgusting nature of sin, that though a man may shut his ​eyes to his own defects, or rather, see them through the magic prism of self-love; yet he almost always abhors them when he sees them reflected in another.
Thus it was with Father Morris—Marianne had been his associate in many scenes of vice; he had, in fact, first led her from the paths of virtue, and, as usual in such cases, he now hated the creature he had made.
Father Morris was indeed that brother of the Duke of Cornwall, whose crimes and punishment have been before slightly hinted at. He had married in early life a beautiful and accomplished woman; but, instigated by the machinations of Marianne, whom he had previously seduced and abandoned, he had become jealous of her, and, in a paroxysm of rage, had deprived her of life. This was the crime he had since endeavoured to expiate by the penance of his whole life. Vain, however, had been his endeavour! The mortification of the body avails little, where the humiliation of the spirit is wanting; and Father Morris, notwithstanding his apparent repentance, was proud, envious, and intolerant.
​In a fit of remorse, after the death of his wife, he had embraced a monastic life, and in order to subject himself to a perpetual penance, had placed himself as father confessor to Sir Ambrose. No situation, in fact, could have been more painful to a proud spirit than this; yet this daily misery Father Morris felt a pride in supporting without murmuring.
It is strange, but true, that haughty spirits sometimes feel almost pleasure in trying their powers of endurance to the utmost; for there is a self-satisfaction in thinking we have borne what seems almost too much for mortals, that often consoles a man under the acutest agonies.
This was the case with Father Morris, and the daily tortures which he endured without shrinking, almost reconciled him to himself. Ambition, however, was still his master-passion, and as his monastic vows prevented its indulgence in his own person, he devoted himself to the advancement of his child. How he succeeded, and how he was rewarded, has been already shown.