IV

When the balloon of the Duke approached the habitation of Sir Ambrose, its occupiers perceived the worthy baronet walking with hasty strides towards the mount of the telegraph, which commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country, followed by Edric, Father Morris, and Dr. Entwerfen, who appeared vainly endeavouring to persuade him to relax a speed so little suited to his advanced years.

“Talk not to me of going slowly, when I expect news of my darling Edmund!” exclaimed Sir Ambrose, continuing his rapid pace⁠—his heart beating with paternal pride, and his countenance beaming with exultation.

“I am also anxious to hear of my brother,” said Edric, “but after the information we have already received by the telegraphic dispatch, it appears to me that we have little more to learn of importance.”

“Edric, you are not a father, and you can have no idea of a father’s anxiety,” replied Sir Ambrose, hurrying on to the mount, as though he hoped the rapidity of his motion would afford some relief to the impatience of his mind; whilst the party of the Duke, seeing the point to which he was hastening, opened the valves of their balloon, and made preparations to descend upon the same spot.

The Duke and Sir Ambrose were always glad to meet, but as the present occasion was one of more than ordinary interest, so they now greeted each other with more than ordinary pleasure. The Duke had always been warmly attached to Edmund, and his voice actually trembled with agitation as he exclaimed:⁠—

“Well, my old friend, you see your brave boy is determined to keep us alive still. Our blood would stagnate in our veins, if he did not give us a fillip now and then to rouse us. But what does the young rogue say of himself? I hope he’s not wounded?”

“He never mentions himself,” replied Sir Ambrose, tears glistening in his eyes, as he pressed the hand of his friend warmly in his own; “Edmund loves his country too devotedly to think of himself when he is engaged in her service.”

“Well, well, it is all right,” cried the Duke, “he is a brave boy, that is certain.”

Sir Ambrose did not reply, for he had now reached the summit of the mount, and was too eagerly looking round in every direction to attend to his friend’s remark.

In those days, the ancient method of conveying the post having been found much too slow for so enlightened a people, an ingenious scheme had been devised, by which the letters were put into balls and discharged by steam-cannon, from place to place; every town and district having a piece of toile metallique, or woven wire, suspended in the air, so as to form a kind of net to arrest the progress of the ball, and being provided with a cannon to send it off again, when the letters belonging to that neighbourhood should have been extracted: whilst, to prevent accident, the mail-post letter-balls were always preceded by one of a similar description, made of thin wood, with a hole in its side, which, collecting the wind as it passed along, made a kind of whizzing noise, to admonish people to keep out of the way.

The mount on which Sir Ambrose now stood, commanded an extensive view, and the scene it presented was beautiful in the extreme. On one side, innumerable grass fields, richly wooded, and only divided from each other by invisible iron fences, appeared like one vast park; whilst, on the other, the waving corn, its full heads beginning to darken in the sun, gave a rich glowing tint to the landscape. But Sir Ambrose thought not of the prospect, he did not even see the murmuring brooks and shady groves, the smiling vales and swelling hills, that constituted its beauty; no, his attention was wholly occupied by a small black spot he had just discovered on the edge of the horizon. In breathless anxiety, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, he bent eagerly forwards, gazing on this small and at first almost imperceptible speck. It gradually grew larger and larger⁠—it rapidly approached! and in a few seconds a slight noise buzzed through the air as the long-expected balls whizzed past him.

Sir Ambrose’s agitation was excessive; with trembling limbs and livid lips, he hurried to the nearest station, which luckily was close at hand, and round which several of his household were assembled, in their impatience to hear the news. Sir Ambrose could not speak, but the person whose province it was to sort the letters guessed his errand, and opening the bag held forth the ardently expected treasure. Gasping for breath, Sir Ambrose eagerly attempted to take it, but his hands were unequal to the task, the violence of his emotion overpowered him, and after a short, but fruitless struggle, he fell senseless on the ground.

The confusion produced by this unexpected incident, was indescribable. The old Duke walked up and down, wringing his hands, and exclaiming, “What shall we do? What will become of us?” whilst the rest of the party endeavoured to give assistance to Sir Ambrose.

“Parental affection,” said Davis, who had an unfortunate propensity for making long speeches precisely at the moment when nobody was likely to attend to him; “parental affection has been universally allowed by all writers, both ancient and modern, to be one of the strongest passions of the soul, and the most exalted instances might be produced of the surprising energy of this universal sentiment.”

“For Heaven’s sake help me to raise my father,” cried Edric: “Give him air, or he will die!”

“Patience,” continued Davis, “is necessary in all things, and is perhaps one of the most useful and estimable qualities of life. It enables us to bear, without shrinking, the bitterest evils that can assail us. Without patience, philosophy would never have made those wonderful discoveries that subjugate nature to our yoke.”

“Fetch me some water,” exclaimed Edric, “or he will expire before your eyes.”

“It appears to me,” said a labourer, who had been mending a steam digging-machine in a neighbouring field, and who now stood leaning upon his work, and looking on gravely at all that passed, without attempting to offer the least assistance;⁠—“It appears to me that it would be highly improper to administer the aqueous fluid in its natural state of frigidity, under the existing circumstances. The present suspension of animation under which Sir Ambrose labours, is evidently occasioned by want of circulation. Now, as it is the property of hot liquors, rather than cold ones, to supply the stimulant necessary for the reproduction of circulation, I opine that hot water would answer the purpose better than cold.”

In the meantime Father Morris had brought some water from a neighbouring fountain, and throwing it on the patient’s face, Sir Ambrose opened his eyes: for some moments he stared wildly around him, but, as soon as he began to recollect what had passed, he implored Father Morris to give him his ardently desired letter.

“You are not yet equal to reading it,” said Father Morris compassionately; “I fear the exertion will be too much for you.”

“Oh give it me! give it me,” exclaimed the poor old man; “if a spark of mercy remain in your soul, do not keep me in this agony!”

It was impossible to resist the tone of real anguish that accompanied these words, and Father Morris put the letter into his hands.⁠—Sir Ambrose took it eagerly; though he trembled so, that he could scarcely break the seal. At last, he tore it open and gazed at its contents, but he could not read a word; he dashed away his tears, and rubbed his eyes impatiently⁠—all was in vain⁠—the writing was still illegible⁠—“Read! read!” cried he, in a voice trembling with agitation, “For Heaven’s sake, read!⁠—will no one have pity on me?”

Father Morris took the letter, and read it aloud, whilst Sir Ambrose sat⁠—his eyes raised to Heaven, his hands clasped together, and the tears rolling down his aged cheeks, listening to his words, and drinking in every syllable. After giving a circumstantial account of the battle, and assuring his father that he had not been wounded, Edmund proceeded thus. “The Queen has written me a letter of approbation in her own hand, and has been graciously pleased to signify her intention of honouring me with a triumphal entry into London; she has likewise conferred upon me letters of nobility. The goodness of my sovereign makes a deep impression upon my breast; but for the rest, I assure you that neither the applauses of the multitude, nor the privilege of writing ‘Lord’ before my name, can afford a moment’s satisfaction to a heart that pants only for the pleasure of seeing again those most dear to it; nor shall I enjoy my triumph unless those I love be present to give it zest.”

“I congratulate you, my dear sir!” exclaimed Father Morris, as soon as he had finished; “I congratulate you from my inmost soul!”

“Go to his triumph!” exclaimed the Duke, rubbing his hands in ecstacy; “Yes, yes, that we will: won’t we, my old friend? God bless him! I’m glad he is not hurt, though. And so you see, in spite of all his glory, he can’t be happy without us. How prettily he says that!⁠—‘Not all the approbation of my sovereign, the praises of the people’⁠—nor⁠—nor⁠—what is it? I don’t remember the exact words, but I know the sense was, that he couldn’t be happy without us, and, God bless him! I’m sure I’m as happy as he can be, at the thought of seeing him.”

Sir Ambrose could not reply, but the tears ran down his aged cheeks like rain, as his heart breathed a silent offering of thanksgiving to the Almighty Being who had thus bestowed victory upon his son; and his lips murmured some inarticulate sounds of transport; whilst Elvira and Rosabella mingled their tears with his, for joy often becomes painful, and seeks for a relief like grief.

The party now slowly returned to the mansion of Sir Ambrose, so completely occupied in discussing Edmund’s letter, as to be totally unaware that Edric had not accompanied them; yet such was the case. The youthful philosopher’s heart had swelled almost to bursting, as he had listened to the reading of his brother’s letter, and he now rushed into a thick wood, shelving down to a romantic stream, which formed part of the pleasure-grounds of Sir Ambrose.

Almost without knowing where he was going, Edric plunged amongst the trees, and threw himself upon a grassy bank under their shade, upon the border of the rivulet. The gentle murmuring of the water, gave a delightful sense of refreshing coolness, particularly agreeable from the burning heat of the day; and Edric lay, his eyes fixed upon the sparkling waves as they danced in the sunbeams, with both his hands pressed firmly upon his throbbing temples, endeavouring in vain to analyze the new and strange emotions that struggled for mastery in his bosom. By degrees he became more calm; and though his heart still beat with feelings he could not quite explain, he felt soothed by the softly gliding streamlet; and the stormy passions of his breast seemed lulled to tranquility as one hand fell carelessly down by his side, and the other merely supported the head it no longer strained.

It was not envy that occasioned Edric’s emotions; but shame and indignation burnt in his bosom when he recollected that he was wasting his days in comparative obscurity, whilst his brother, only a few years older than himself, was ennobling the name bequeathed to him by his ancestors.

“And cannot I also become famous?” thought he, his heart swelling with emulation. “Though I abhor the profession of a soldier, are not other ways open to me of attaining eminence? Why should I not exert myself? I will remain in indolence no longer. I, too, will prove myself worthy of my forefathers, and show the world that the exalted blood of the Montagues has not degenerated in my veins!” His eyes sparkled with the thought, and he half raised himself, as though eager to put it into immediate execution. A moment’s reflection, however, restored him to himself, and he could not help smiling at his own folly. “And yet I call myself a philosopher,” thought he: “Alas! alas! how little do we know ourselves, for after all, the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake is the only employment worthy of a man of sense: and the transitory applause of the multitude, it is beneath him to accept. Nature is the goddess I adore; and if it should be granted to me to explore her secrets, I shall be the happiest of mankind. But why should I pass my life in anxious cravings never destined to be realized? The events of today have only proved clearly the little value my society is of to my father: he is much to occupied with my brother to even think of me, and were I absent, I should soon be forgotten. Why then should I not travel and satisfy these restless wishes that gnaw at my heart and poison every pleasure? I was not born to rest contented with the dull routine of domestic life, and I detest hypocrisy: I will seek my father; and, explaining my real sentiments, break off this hated marriage and set off for Egypt immediately.”

Satisfied with this resolution, Edric rose and walked hastily towards his father’s mansion, with all that inward vigour which the consciousness of having made up one’s mind is certain to bestow; and which, perhaps, is one of the most agreeable sensations that can be experienced by the human mind, as that of suspense or indecision is undoubtedly one of the most unpleasant.

Edric found his father and the Duke busily engaged in consulting upon their intended journey, which was an event in both their lives; for as, since the universal adoption of balloons, journeys were performed without either trouble or expense, the rich had lost all inducement to undertake them, and it was rare for a man of rank to quit his family mansion unless he had some post at court.

“I have a palace in London,” said the Duke, “which I hope you will make your home; though it has been so long unused that I doubt whether it will be fit for your reception.”

“Do not distress yourself about making arrangements for my family,” replied Sir Ambrose; “there will be only Edric and myself, and we can make shift with anything.”

“Indeed I shall not consent to any such arrangement,” said Elvira, who now entered the room with Rosabella and Clara Montagu, the orphan niece of the baronet, who had been brought up in his family; “What has Clara done that she is to be excluded from the party?”

“Oh, Clara is too young to think of such things,” returned Sir Ambrose, smiling.

“Not she,” cried the Duke; “I’ll engage for it; are you my pretty rosebud?” continued he, drawing the smiling, blushing girl to his knee. “Shouldn’t you like to go to London, eh?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Clara, with all the eagerness and innocence of fifteen, for that was her age; “very much indeed, if my uncle has no objection.”

“My dear Sir Ambrose,” said Elvira, coaxingly, “do pray indulge us.”

“Well, well, we shall see,” replied the good-humoured baronet, smiling.

“Thank you, thank you, my dear, dear uncle!” cried Clara, flying to him, and almost smothering him with kisses.

“But I have not consented yet, you know.”

“No, but I’m sure you will, you look so good-natured.”

“Go, go, you are a little coaxing puss: but why did you not come home last night, Clara?”

“My nurse was so ill, and it rained so: besides, you know, uncle, you gave me leave to stop, if I liked.”

“Well, well, I believe I did. It was of no great consequence; you are always safe under the care of Mrs. Robson: she is a very respectable woman⁠—I hope she’s better?”

“Oh, she’ll soon be well now. I’m going to tell her of Edmund’s victory; and she said yesterday, if she could but hear that he had conquered, it would cure her, if she were dying.”

“Off with you, then,” said Sir Ambrose, laughing, “you are always on the wing; and harkye, you may tell your nurse also, that you are going to London.”

Clara’s delight and gratitude were unbounded, and she sprang away like a young fawn to tell her nurse the joyful news, while Elvira’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she thanked Sir Ambrose warmly for his kindness.

The Duke was also highly gratified. “You must bring Abelard and Davis also,” said he, “for I’m sure you won’t be happy without them.”

Sir Ambrose owned he should not; and the Duke, being like most people who lead dull, monotonous lives, quite delighted with an event that promised a little change, bustled off, followed by his fair companions, fully determined to make the most of it.

Edric’s heart throbbed violently when he found himself alone with his father; the moment was arrived he had been so ardently wishing for, and yet he was silent. He had scarcely had patience to wait the end of his father’s conference with the Duke; and whilst it had lasted, he had been arranging and rearranging a thousand times in his mind, the phrases he meant to make use of; yet now they seemed to have all vanished from his memory, and he stood gazing through the open window, his mind feeling a perfect chaos, and without being able to recollect one single word of what he had determined to say.

After continuing for some time in this state of irresolution, he was suddenly startled by his father’s exclaiming, “Well, Edric, my dear boy, I am very glad I have an opportunity of speaking to you alone, as I have something of importance to communicate.”

The voice of Sir Ambrose sounded harsh and abrupt in the ears of his son, and Edric felt incapable of uttering a single word in reply.

“What is the matter?” cried Sir Ambrose, after a short pause; “surely you are not ill? Edric, my dear boy, do speak; shall I send for Dr. Coleman?”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Edric, faintly; “I am not ill, I assure you.”

“What is the matter, then?” resumed Sir Ambrose, impatiently; “Perhaps, you want some new philosophical instrument, and you don’t like to ask for it, because you know the low state of my finances. But don’t distress yourself on that account, for you are going to marry a rich wife, and then you can indulge yourself with anything you like.”

“Marry!” cried Edric, in alarm.

“Yes,” returned his father, “the Duke has just most generously proposed that you shall marry Rosabella; and that he will give her a fortune equal to what he gives Elvira.”

“But I do not love Rosabella, and nothing shall induce me to marry her: I should be utterly miserable even to think of it.”

“Not marry Rosabella!” exclaimed Sir Ambrose, in the utmost astonishment.

“Indeed, I cannot. I am convinced she would make me wretched, for our tempers don’t assimilate, and we should both be miserable. I should be very sorry to cause either you or the Duke a moment’s uneasiness. But in an affair like this, which concerns the happiness of my whole life.⁠—”

“Don’t talk to me, Sir,” cried Sir Ambrose, in a violent passion, “I won’t hear a word, Sir⁠—not a syllable: my son shall obey my orders. Go to your room, Sir, and prepare to marry Rosabella immediately, or never expect to see my face again.”

“My dear father!” said Edric, attempting to take Sir Ambrose’s hand.

“Away, Sir!” cried the baronet, shaking him off; “obedience far outweighs words. If I am your dear father, you will act in compliance with my wishes; and if you do not, it is a mockery to call me ‘dear.’ ”

“I cannot marry Rosabella!”

“Was ever such obstinacy!⁠—such folly! The world will think you distracted.”

“I care not for the world!” cried Edric, impatiently.

“But you must care for the world⁠—the world must not be slighted! and as long as you live in it, you must conform to its opinions. I don’t like to hear people say they don’t care for the world; when people pretend to scorn it, it is generally because they have done something to make it scorn them.”

“But, my dear father! you would not wish me to sacrifice my conscience to its dictates.”

“And pray, Sir, what has your conscience to do with the matter in question?”

“Should I not sacrifice it by marrying a woman I feel I could never love? In my opinion, nothing can be more sacred than the marriage vow; and with what feelings could I enter into this solemn engagement in the presence of Almighty God, calling upon him to witness it, when I knew my heart was at variance with my words? My soul would recoil with horror at such blasphemy.”

“You talk about your conscience, Edric⁠—but should you not rather say your inclinations? The person of Rosabella does not please your fancy, I suppose; and to gratify a capricious whim, you would destroy the happiness of your father, and ruin your own prospects forever.”

“It is not of the person of Rosabella that I complain; I allow her to be beautiful as a Venus, and that her talents even exceed her personal charms: but when I see her dark eyes flashing fury, and her lips curved into an expression of pride, hatred, or scorn, I forget her beauty, and think only of the fearful passions of her soul.”

“Your objections are futile, Edric; at any rate, they are of no avail. You must marry her⁠—I am sorry it is against your inclination, but I will not have my authority disputed: however, as I have always been an indulgent father, I do not wish you to decide hastily, and I give you four-and-twenty hours to make up your mind: at the expiration of which time you shall marry Rosabella or quit my house forever. No reply, young man; I won’t hear a word.”

It was in vain to attempt a reply; and Edric left his father’s presence oppressed by that strange, mysterious presentiment of evil, which, like a fearful cloud, dark, gloomy, and impenetrable, sometimes hangs upon our thoughts, foreboding horrors; though so dimly and indistinctly, that, like the gigantic phantoms we sometimes fancy through the mist of twilight, their terrors seemed increased tenfold by the very uncertainty that half shrouds them from our sight. Mingled with these feelings, was one of wild, unearthly joy. Driven from his father’s house, he would be free to travel⁠—his doubts might be satisfied⁠—he might, at last, penetrate into the secrets of the grave; and partake, without restraint, of the so ardently desired fruit of the tree of knowledge. Nothing would then be hidden from him. Nature would be forced to yield up her treasures to his view⁠—her mysteries would be revealed, and he would become great, omniscient, and godlike. His mind filled with a chaos of thoughts like these, which he strove in vain to arrange, and which seemed to swell his brain almost to bursting, Edric sought the study of Dr. Entwerfen to inform his worthy tutor of the change a few short hours had wrought in his destiny.