V

“Why did not you join with your cousin in inviting Clara Montagu to go with us to London?” said the Duke to Rosabella, as their balloon proceeded homewards.

“I thought the humility of my situation rendered it improper,” returned Rosabella, with an affected air of modesty. “It surely would be wrong for a poor dependant like myself, to take the liberty of inviting guests to the house of her patron.”

“Rosabella! you know I can’t bear to hear you talk so ridiculously⁠—I hate to hear of your dependant situation, and humility, and nonsense; we all know that you are not humble, you are as proud as Lucifer; and as to dependance, I never make any distinction between you and Elvira. You are my daughters whilst I live, and shall be my heiresses when I die⁠—aye, and perhaps before I die, but you’ll see.”

“I am sure my cousin did not mean to offend-you, Sir,” said Elvira; “She loves you tenderly, and⁠—”

“Apropos de bottes!” exclaimed the Duke, “what letter was that which I saw you receive this morning?”

“It was from Edmund,” replied Elvira trembling and blushing, as she drew it from her bosom, and gave it to her father.

In case of Claudia’s death, Elvira and Rosabella were the next heiresses to the throne; and as neither had attained the age which would prevent their being eligible candidates, they had not the least idea the Duke would wish them to marry until after that period. Thus both earnestly regarded the Duke as he perused the epistle, which Elvira knew, and Rosabella suspected, breathed only love; and both expected a torrent of rage when he had concluded it. To their infinite surprise however, he folded it up, and putting it into his pocket, merely told Elvira, that he wished a private conference with her in his library, as soon as they reached home. Poor Elvira turned pale at the mention of the library: for when aught went wrong in the Duke’s household, it was there he was accustomed to lecture the unfortunate offender, and there Elvira herself had often trembled in her childhood; in short, the place was associated in her mind with only disagreeable recollections, and anticipating nothing pleasant connected with it, she sat completely absorbed in a gloomy silence.

Rosabella seemed equally disinclined for conversation. Though the conduct of her uncle was quite different from what she had expected, her active mind had already suggested a thousand explanations for it, each less consonant to her judgment than her wishes. “His letter must have been one of mere friendship⁠—and it is possible that he does not love her,” thought she; whilst, as the idea flashed across her mind she turned eagerly to Elvira, to read its confirmation in her countenance:⁠—but, alas! those timid, downcast looks⁠—and those glowing cheeks, told but too plainly a tale that drove Rosabella to distraction. Scarcely had the balloon stopped when she sprang from the car, and rushed to her own room in a state little short of madness, whilst Elvira, with a beating heart followed her father to the library.

Rosabella was met at the entrance to her apartments by her favourite attendant, Marianne, who had lived with her from her childhood, and who governed her with despotic sway. It is strange, but the most haughty people are generally the most submissive slaves to those who have acquired power over them, and the proud-spirited female who would spurn indignantly all control from her titled relatives, will obey implicitly⁠—nay, almost servilely, the wishes of a favourite servant. Thus it was with Rosabella. Marianne was perfectly aware of her power, and she occasionally used it tyrannically, but on the present occasion she was really alarmed at the glowing cheeks, flashing eyes, and agitated frame of Rosabella, and asked with an appearance of deep interest, if she were ill.

Rosabella did not speak, but throwing herself upon a sofa, hid her face in both her hands.

“What is the matter?” asked Marianne, gazing at her with astonishment.

“He loves her! he adores her!” cried Rosabella, starting from her couch and traversing the room rapidly. “Curse on her beauty! Oh that a look of mine could wither it! or that she could feel the burning fire that rages here!” Then stopping suddenly, she gazed upon her attendant with the wildness of a maniac, and, pressing her hand firmly against her side, threw herself again upon her couch, exclaiming, “Oh, Marianne! why am I not beloved like Elvira?”

“And are you certain that she is beloved?”

“Certain!” reiterated Rosabella, wringing her hands; “Alas! alas! would I were not so certain; but can I doubt the evidence of my senses? This day⁠—this very day! she has received a letter from him. I saw a blush of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks, and I could have stabbed her to the heart⁠—yes, and exulted in her dying agonies⁠—triumphed in her groans. Oh, Marianne! is it not extraordinary that one so great, so noble, and so exalted as Edmund, can love such a poor, weak, feeble being as Elvira? But she loves him not; at least not as he should be loved. She is incapable of it.”

“I think she is and that though he now admires her beauty, yet, when he discovers the feebleness of her soul, he must despise her.”

“But he is so blinded that he fancies her very faults perfections.”

“That blindness cannot continue. When Edmund knew Elvira, he had seen nothing of the world; and people thus situated, who have warm imaginations, generally amuse themselves by conjuring up an idol of perfection to which they attach all kinds of merit, probable or improbable. They invest the first face or figure that takes their fancy, with these imagined charms, no matter whether they accord or not, and then fall in love with the image they have created⁠—whilst the delusion under which they labour, makes them see every action of the beloved object under a false light; just as people wearing green spectacles fancy the whole creation tinged with emerald. Intercourse with the world dispels these visions, and when Edmund returns he will be as one awakening from a dream: he will look in vain for the charms which once bewitched him.”

“Oh, that you may be right! but yet I fear⁠—”

“Fear nothing⁠—Edmund will return quite changed. Though in reality he has been absent only a few months, he will have acquired more knowledge of the world, than in all his previous life. He will now know himself, and will feel that he wants a companion in a wife: one that can enter into his views, participate in his wishes, and if necessary, aid him in his plans. Then will he be able to properly estimate your character, and despising the feeble Elvira, he will lay his heart and hand humbly at your feet.”

“Alas! alas! were even this flattering vision realised, it would be then too late.”

“Too late! what mean you?”

“That even now Elvira is confessing his attachment to her father, and, perhaps⁠—oh, there is madness in the thought!⁠—even at this moment she may be receiving his approval.”

“Then we are lost,” said Marianne, and a pause ensued, interrupted only by the convulsive sobs of Rosabella, who wrung her hands and wept aloud in the bitterest agony.

“But are you sure you have not deceived yourself?” resumed the confidant; “your jealousy may have given weight to trifles not worthy of serious attention.”

“The Duke asked her if she had heard from him, and she gave him Edmund’s letter. My uncle read it calmly, and when he had finished desired her to attend him to his library.”

“I confess this does not look well,” said Marianne, and another long pause ensued, which was broken by the sound of rapid footsteps, and in an instant Elvira rushed into the apartment with a face radiant with joy.

“Oh, my dear cousin,” cried she, “my father is so kind! so good! I have told him everything, and he is not in the least angry. He has given his consent, and all is settled. I am to marry Edmund, and you Edric, and⁠—”

“I marry Edric!” exclaimed Rosabella, the crimson flush of anger darkening over her fine features, and proud scorn curling her beautiful lips; “I marry that feeble inanimate wretch! When we meet, and he offers his hand to greet me, his very touch seems to freeze my veins. Cold, prudent, and calculating, he has all the vices of age without its excuses. And shall I marry such a being? No, if all other resources fail, death shall free me before the hated moment arrives!” and starting from her couch, she paced the room in violent agitation.

“My dear Rosabella,” said Elvira following, and trying to soothe her, “do pray compose yourself. Consider my father⁠—how angry he would be if he were to hear you! He is so positive he might⁠—” Here Elvira stopped, her delicacy making her averse to remind her cousin how completely she was in the Duke’s power.

“Go on,” cried Rosabella, tauntingly; “I know what you would say. Upbraid me with my meanness⁠—trample upon me⁠—spurn me⁠—do not even spare the memory of my poor dear father;⁠—I am prepared for everything; I know the worst; I know that my uncle is positive, and that I am a poor dependant, subsisting upon his bounty, and that it is in his power to turn me this instant from his door, without a shilling to procure me food or shelter. But not even this shall control my will. Poor and dependant as I am, I am free; and I would sooner labour in the meanest servitude, beg my bread, or even perish for want, than reside in a palace surrounded by crowds of adoring slaves, if the price were that I must call Edric husband.”

“My dear mistress,” exclaimed Marianne, soothingly, “you are too violent.”

“I am very much hurt, Rosabella,” said Elvira, “to find you think me capable of saying anything intentionally to wound your feelings. As to your unhappy father, you must be aware I know his history only vaguely, as it is a subject to which the Duke never suffers anyone to allude; and I assure you he was not even in my thoughts when I spoke⁠—”

“Oh!” cried Rosabella, clasping her hands together energetically as she spoke; “Oh! that it were but permitted to me to clear my father’s name from the shade that hangs over it. I know, I feel, that he cannot have been guilty! He must have been the victim of slander; of vile contrivance or malice of plots raised against him by those who envied his fair fame. Oh, that I knew the facts, and could clear him from all blame! By heaven! neither the gratification of my love, nor any revenge, could afford me half the pleasure!”

“You use strange language, Rosabella,” said Elvira, blushing at her cousin’s warmth; “I own I cannot comprehend such violent feelings. Thank God! nature formed mine in a more temperate mould.”

“Your feelings!” cried Rosabella, scornfully; “you have none⁠—you cannot even fancy them⁠—you are incapable of love!”

“There you do me injustice,” replied Elvira; “such passions as yours I am indeed incapable of feeling⁠—but love; real, pure, undefiled love; that absorbing affection which prefers another’s happiness to its own; that devotion which would sink unknown to the grave, to procure another’s happiness; that seeks not its own gratification, but would sacrifice all the world can give, to promote the welfare of another; that can taste of no pleasure and partake of no delight, unless it be participated by the beloved object, and even then, joys in his satisfaction more than in its own; this I can feel; my heart tells me that I can, and this, I hope, I shall in time feel for Edmund.”

“Then you own you do not love him yet?” asked Rosabella, with a bitter smile.

“I fear I do not,” returned Elvira, sighing, “at least not as he should be loved. But,” continued she, after a short pause, “perhaps my ideas of love are foolish and romantic, and I shall in time become more reasonable.”

A smile of contempt was Rosabella’s only answer, when their conference was interrupted by a summons for them both to attend the Duke. They obeyed in silence, and found him sitting in his library, with Father Morris standing beside his chair.

“Of course, Elvira has told you what I mean to do for you?” said the Duke, addressing Rosabella.

“Yes! my lord, she has,” returned Rosabella with dignity.

“Well, and what do you say to it?”

“I thought your Grace did not intend either my cousin, or myself to marry, till we were past the age fixed by the late Queen?”

“Pooh! nonsense; you neither of you have the least chance of ascending the throne. Claudia is not thirty: and she is likely to live these fifty years.”

Rosabella did not speak, but the colour fled from her cheeks, and her eyes were cast upon the ground, whilst her strongly compressed lips showed that it was with infinite difficulty that she controlled her feelings sufficiently to hear her uncle with patience.

“In short,” continued the Duke, “I have made up my mind that you shall both marry; and as Edmund it seems has fixed upon Elvira, I think I cannot do better than to give you to his younger brother.”

“And do you know of whom you are disposing so unceremoniously?” asked Rosabella, raising her brilliant eyes from the ground, and fixing them upon him with a look of proud scorn. The Duke shrunk involuntarily from the withering glance, which seemed to fall upon him with the fabled power of that of the basilisk.

“Of whom I am disposing?” stammered he, unconsciously repeating her words, “Of whom I am disposing? Why, of my niece, to be sure,” he continued, arranging with difficulty his scattered ideas. “You are my niece, are you not?”

“Yes,” returned Rosabella, “unfortunately I am your niece; and I blush for an uncle who does not scruple to abuse so barbarously the last legacy bequeathed to him by an unfortunate brother. Yes, my lord Duke, I am your niece⁠—your protégée⁠—your dependant. I am not ashamed to own that I owe my daily bread to your bounty; but notwithstanding all this, I am not aware that I am your slave, nor do I think the pecuniary obligations I am under to you sufficient to give you the right of disposing of me as an article of furniture, or a beast of burden.”

“You mistake the matter entirely, Rosabella,” said the Duke; “I do not wish to hurt your feelings.”

“Do you think, then, that I am formed of stone or iron, that I am to be told to marry when and where you list, without having my inclinations consulted or my affections gained? I am not so quiescent. Were my poor father alive you would not treat me thus.”

“Beware, Rosabella, you tread on dangerous ground!” said the Duke, violently agitated.

“Alas! alas!” cried Rosabella, wringing her hands, “why am I treated thus? Have I no friend to take my part? Will no one interpose to save me from destruction? Oh that my poor father were alive!⁠—he, at least, would pity his unhappy daughter. Father Morris, you have always professed to love me. I have been told you were my father’s friend. Can you stand and see me thus cruelly oppressed, and not proffer one single word in my behalf? I appeal to you as a friend, as a Christian, as a man.”

Father Morris made no answer to this appeal, but his lips turned of a livid paleness, and uttering a low groan, he sank into a chair, hiding his face in his hands, whilst every nerve quivering with agitation.

“Go to your chamber, Rosabella,” said the Duke, in a trembling voice, “and when you have learnt to express yourself more temperately towards one who has been your only friend and benefactor, perhaps I may send for you again.”

Rosabella attempted to speak, but the Duke sternly forbade her. “Go,” said he, “your ignorance of your real situation may now plead in excuse for your conduct. But the time will shortly come when you will shudder at your folly, and wonder at my present forbearance.”

Awed by his manner, and the mysterious emotion of Father Morris, Rosabella withdrew in silence, followed by Elvira, and each retired to her separate chamber, to muse in solitude upon the strange events which had occurred during the day.