VII

When Father Morris had left Edric, he proceeded to the house of the Duke of Cornwall, intending to return to that of Sir Ambrose almost immediately; but the scene which took place between the Duke and his niece, altered his determination. It is not in the power of language to describe the agony of Father Morris at the appeal of Rosabella. She had accidentally touched upon a chord that thrilled through every nerve, and almost drove him to madness. The Duke, after attempting in vain to console him, retired, leaving him a prey to the bitterest torments; for, like the votaries of Eblis, he felt unquenchable fire burning in his bosom, and like them, he sought in vain to escape. He was roused from this state of unutterable anguish, by a summons from Sir Ambrose to attend him instantly, and with a heavy heart he obeyed.

Repenting the sins he had committed, yet meditating more, Father Morris endeavoured, as he slowly retraced his steps to Sir Ambrose’s mansion, to soothe his feelings, by dwelling upon the good he meant to do when he should attain power, rather than on the means by which that power was to be obtained: for it is a remarkable fact, that no man likes to appear a villain to himself; and even when his crimes escape the eyes of the world, he is not satisfied, unless he can frame plausible excuses for them in his own mind: though it is true that these excuses would not bear strict examination; as self-love is an able sophist, and slight reasons look brilliant when set off by such colouring.

Nearly reconciled to himself by arguments, the fallacy of which he would have been the first to detect, if they had been offered by another, Father Morris entered the house of Sir Ambrose with his usual calm smile; but his equanimity was almost again upset, when he found Dr. Coleman, a highly respectable physician in the neighbourhood, already closeted with the worthy baronet. Father Morris hated Dr. Coleman, it would perhaps be difficult to say why; unless it was that the priest, feeling conscious his designs would not bear exposure, shrank from the penetrating eye of the physician, whose natural shrewdness was considerably heightened by his professional acumen. There are, indeed, no classes of society better acquainted with the vices of mankind, than the professors of law and physic: a great writer has called law the chimney through which the fiery passions of the world expend themselves in smoke⁠—and the experience of the medical man sometimes even surpasses that of his legal brethren. Admitted into the very bosoms of families⁠—often the unavoidable confidant of the most delicate secrets⁠—an experienced physician becomes naturally cautious, penetrating, and suspicious.

This was the case with Dr. Coleman; and Father Morris now felt particularly annoyed by his presence: as, however, there was no remedy, the father was too good a politician to suffer his annoyance to be seen, and smoothing his brow, he expressed in his usual soft, low voice, the pleasure he said he felt at meeting so unexpectedly with his old friend.

“I am glad to hear that you are pleased to see me,” said Dr. Coleman, with marked emphasis.

“How can it be otherwise? It is so kind of you, who have so many professional engagements to occupy your time, to bestow any of it upon your friends.”

Dr. Coleman did not speak, but he fixed his eyes upon Father Morris, with an expression which the latter could not bear. Hastily drawing the cowl, in which his features were generally shrouded, still closer over his face, he turned to Sir Ambrose, and asked what had occasioned the hasty summons he had received.

“The conduct of Edric,” replied the baronet abruptly; “he refuses to see me, and as I understand he had a long conference with you this morning, I have sent for you to know what he means.”

“That, my dear Sir,” returned Father Morris, with a gentle smile, and half-closed eyes, “you must allow, it would be impossible for me even to guess. The minds of young men are wayward and capricious; they scarcely know their own wishes; how then can one so ignorant of the world as I, be expected to divine them? Our good friend Dr. Coleman is much more competent to advise you upon the subject than I am.”

“Oh, you are too humble, father!” said Dr. Coleman ironically; “pray have a juster sense of your own merit.”

“All this has nothing to do with the business,” exclaimed Sir Ambrose, getting into a passion. “I want to know what you said to Edric this morning, and what he said to you.”

“He told me that he would sooner die than marry Rosabella.”

“The young villain! then let him die, if he likes it. But it’s all nonsense⁠—a mere figure of speech. It is very easy to talk about dying; but few people like it when they are put to the test. Not that he’s the least intention of anything of the kind. He thinks I’m an old fool, and only says it to frighten me: but I see through his schemes! I’m not to be duped, and I won’t give up the point. I shall be deaf to all his prayers and supplications.”

“I do not think that he intends to offer any.”

“Not offer any! What do you mean?”

“That I think he has a project in his head, which makes him rather glad of the quarrel that has taken place, than otherwise.”

“Impossible! this must be false,” cried Dr. Coleman, starting from his seat.

“See him, and judge for yourself,” returned Father Morris, scowling at his opponent.

“And what is this project?” asked Sir Ambrose, as soon as he had recovered a little from his astonishment.

“He intends to go to Egypt, and visiting the Pyramids, to try to resuscitate a mummy!”

Dr. Coleman groaned in the spirit: Sir Ambrose shook his head.

“I fear it is but too true,” said he, “it is just like one of his plans. The boy is mad; evidently distracted: that silly tutor of his has quite turned his brain.”

“I really am afraid he is deranged,” sighed Dr. Coleman, “if he seriously entertains so mad a scheme: but you will excuse me, Father Morris, if I still entertain some doubts upon the subject. He may only have mentioned such a thing in joke.”

“Talk to him yourself; he is in the chamber of Dr. Entwerfen: I do not wish you to confide in my representations. It is always painful to me to interfere in family disputes. Indeed, when Edric this morning wished me to explain his intentions to his father, I declined doing so; and you were witness, that it was only in compliance with the earnest entreaty of my worthy friend, that I spoke at all on the subject.”

“Notwithstanding,” said Dr. Coleman, after musing a short time, “I shall be better satisfied when I have seen Edric myself.”

“I beg you will do no such thing,” interrupted Sir Ambrose, “he will fancy you an ambassador from me, and I could not bear that. It is his place to submit, not mine. He shall not triumph over me in that manner.”

“I am sure he would feel no triumph.”

“But I tell you he would, Sir! He would rejoice, exult, and glory in such a thing. I will be master in my own house, and over my own sons: you shall not see him, nobody shall see him; and he shall remain shut up in the asylum he has chosen, till he comes to his senses.”

“It is useless to enrage Sir Ambrose by farther opposition now,” whispered Father Morris to Dr. Coleman; “Edric cannot go to Egypt without money, and you know he never has any in hand. It can do no harm to adjourn the subject till tomorrow: they will both then be calmer, and more likely to listen to reason.”

Dr. Coleman could not deny the policy of this advice, though he felt reluctant to follow it, as it was suggested by Father Morris: discarding the presentiment of evil, however, as a prejudice which it was his duty to overcome, as it was contrary to his reason, the worthy physician took his leave, fully determining to reconcile the father and son on the morrow.

But the morrow⁠—(alas! who shall dare speculate upon the morrow?) was destined to see Edric and his tutor on their way to Egypt. When Father Morris returned to the adytum of Dr. Entwerfen, he informed Edric, that his father, so far from expressing anger at his intended expedition to Egypt, seemed glad of the opportunity to get rid of him, as he said his presence would only spoil Edmund’s triumph. “He says you always look so gloomily,” continued the wily priest, “that even when he is disposed to enjoy himself, you throw a damp upon his spirits the instant you appear. He, therefore, gave his free consent to your journey, and commissioned me to supply you with the funds necessary for the expedition.”

It had ever been the prevailing weakness of Edric to believe his brother more beloved by Sir Ambrose than himself; and Father Morris knowing this, had framed his tale accordingly. We easily believe what we fear; and Edric, though not generally credulous, placed implicit faith in the father’s story, though it gave him acute anguish.

“I knew he did not love me,” said he, “but to bid me go thus, on so perilous an enterprise, without seeing me, I did not expect,” and involuntary tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke, whilst the good-natured Dr. Entwerfen sobbed for sympathy.

“Never mind it, Edric dear!” said he, throwing his arms round his pupil’s neck; “you have one friend, at any rate, who loves you dearly, and will never desert you.”

“I know it,” exclaimed Edric, warmly returning his tutor’s embrace; “Yes, doctor, you are my friend, of that I am fully satisfied; and we will succeed, or perish together.”

“You will want many things to enable you to proceed in your enterprise,” said Father Morris, “with which you must furnish yourselves in London. Besides, as Edric has never been ten miles from home in his life, he should stay a short time to see the wonders of that vast metropolis, before he leaves his native country. Foreseeing this, and thinking, as strangers in London, you would feel awkward in having no place to go to on your arrival, I have dispatched a carrier pigeon to a friend of mine in town, Lord Gustavus de Montfort, who will, I am sure, give you a hearty welcome, and will afford you both the shelter of his house, and the aid of his advice.”

“I know not how to express my gratitude,” returned Edric.

“Then say nothing about it⁠—if you really feel obliged, profit by my directions. A stage balloon will pass through the village in an hour, shall you be ready to avail yourselves of the opportunity?”

“I would go this instant,” exclaimed Edric. The doctor, with some difficulty, consented to this arrangement, and, at the appointed moment, Edric and his tutor were on their way to London: though the doctor could scarcely be persuaded to set off; for, again and again, he would return to survey the treasures he was leaving behind, and the moment Edric thought he had him safe, he would recollect some indispensable requisite for their journey, and hurry back again to find it. At last they were fairly started, and a favourable wind blew them rapidly towards London. Edric had never seen this vast metropolis, and his astonishment and delight, when its magnificent palaces, its superb streets, its public buildings, its theatres, and its churches, broke upon him, was quite beyond description. His transports and exclamations, indeed, at length became so violent, as quite to annoy the learned doctor.

“If you feel such rapture at the sight of London,” said he, peevishly, “I suppose you will be reluctant to quit it; and I dare say you already repent having proposed to travel.”

“Oh! what is that?” cried Edric, without attending to him, as, lost in amazement, he saw a house in the suburbs gently slide out of its place, and glide majestically along the road, a lady at one of the windows kissing her hand to someone in another house as she passed. “Do my eyes deceive me, or does that house move?”

“Certainly it does,” replied the doctor. “Did you never see a moving house before? You must have heard of them at any rate, for nothing can be more common. It certainly is convenient, when one wants to go into the country for a few weeks, to be able to take one’s house with one: it saves a great deal of trouble in packing, and permits one to have all one’s little conveniences about one. You see there are grooves in the bottom of the houses that just fit on the iron railways; and as they are propelled by steam, they slide on without much trouble. It does not answer, however, with any but small houses, for large ones can’t well be made compact enough. However, you must postpone your admiration of that, as well as of the other wonders of London, for here we are at Lord Gustavus’s door. What a noble mansion! is it not? This street, Edric, is called the Strand, and is the most fashionable in London; because it adjoins the Queen’s favourite palace at Somerset House.”

“Is that the palace?” said Edric. “It seems a noble pile of building.”

“The gardens are fine,” replied the doctor; “but as they are thrown open to the public, and nothing is paid for admission, it is reckoned vulgar to walk in them. You English do not like anything you do not pay for; but more of this hereafter. We must now prepare to pay our respects to our noble host.”

Lord Gustavus de Montfort received them very kindly, but Edric found something in his voice and manners excessively forbidding. He had a pompous disagreeable manner of speaking, with a nasal accent so strong, that it was absolutely torture to Edric, whose sense of hearing was uncommonly fine, to listen to him; he had also a conceited dictatorial way of delivering his opinion, which Edric thought extremely unpleasant. He generally commenced his speeches with “Thinking as I think, and as I am positive everyone who hears me must think, or at least ought to think;” and this exordium formed an epitome of his character; as he was firmly persuaded that everyone who differed in the slightest degree from his opinion, was decidedly wrong, whilst the possibility of his ever being mistaken himself never entered his imagination. His father had been one of the counsellors of the late Queen, and his eldest brother having declined to take the father’s place upon his death, Lord Gustavus had been appointed to it. Thus he was really a person of some consequence in the state; and though his being so was quite a matter of chance, arising from the circumstances above-mentioned and the indolence of the Queen, he affected to regard it as a matter of personal favour to himself, and endeavoured to persuade his hearers that the affairs of government could not possibly go on without him. Knowing his foible of wishing to be thought of importance in the realm, and feeling the want of a leader of rank, some of the discontented spirits of the kingdom had endeavoured to gain him over to their party; and though Lord Gustavus was strictly loyal, and even particularly fond of talking of her gracious Majesty the Queen, and boasting of the confidence she placed in him, yet his vanity could not altogether resist the able attacks made upon it by the rebels. He wavered, he began to talk of reform, and to mingle boasts of his popularity amongst the people, with those he had before indulged in, of enjoying the favour of his sovereign. Thus he hung upon the balance, ready to incline to either side, according to the circumstances that time or chance might produce.

“I am extremely happy,” said he, as he advanced to meet his guests, “that my worthy and respected friend Father Morris, has procured me the honour of such illustrious visitors. The holy father has informed me of the sublime purpose that animates your bosoms, and leads you to traverse realms of air, to explore the hitherto undiscovered secrets of the grave. His partiality for me has also led him to imagine that my humble means may perchance prove conducive to so great an end, and he has requested me to give you all the assistance in my power to promote the gigantic objects you have in view. Thus you may rest assured, no efforts shall be wanting on my part to fulfil his wishes, and as, though insignificant in myself, I am so happy as to be honoured by the protection and favour of her Majesty the Queen, my most gracious sovereign; and also as my feeble attempts to promote the public good have been rewarded by the gratitude of the people; it may perchance be in my power to serve you; and in the meantime I hope you will do me the honour to partake of such hospitality as my humble mansion can afford.” So saying, Lord Gustavus led the way through a sumptuous suite of rooms, to one where an elegant cold collation was laid out, of which he invited his guests to partake. Nothing could be more splendid than the furniture and embellishments of this apartment. The rooms were hung with crimson silk, trimmed with gold; valuable paintings decorated the walls; statues of inestimable price filled each corner, and magnificent mirrors increased tenfold the magic of the scene. Lord Gustavus secretly enjoyed the astonishment and admiration painted upon the countenances of his guests; and whilst he openly affected to talk of his “poor house,” and his “humble attempts to entertain them,” etc. his heart covertly exalted in the grandeur around him, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure at the effect he saw it produced upon the strangers. Nothing makes one so much disposed to be in a good humour with the world, as being in a good humour with oneself; and nothing is so certain to produce that delightful sensation, as to see what we possess excite the admiration of others. Thus, as the flattery conveyed by looks far outweighs that expressed by words, and as the looks of Edric and the doctor unequivocally declared their sentiments, Lord Gustavus was quite enchanted with his visitors, and spared no pains to render them equally happy as himself. He ordered a large apartment to be prepared for the doctor, that he might make his arrangements for the intended Egyptian expedition quite at his ease; he commanded his servants to obey his directions implicitly, and he directed tradesmen to supply everything that might be wanted at his own expense.

Having thus given the doctor carte blanche, he next turned his attention to Edric, and, finding it was his first visit to London, volunteered to show him all the wonders of that immense metropolis, which then, spreading enormously in every direction, seemed like the fabled monster of the Indians, to stretch its enormous arms on every side and swallow up all the hapless villages which were so unfortunate as to fall within its reach.

Sir Ambrose being too proud to make any enquiries respecting his rebellious son, Edric’s departure was not suspected by his father till the arrival of Dr. Coleman on the following day. As Father Morris had predicted, the worthy baronet was become much more cool, and by the persuasions of Dr. Coleman, at length consented to see his son, and not to insist upon his marrying Rosabella, until he had given the subject more mature consideration. After this concession, his astonishment and indignation, when he learnt the truth, may be easier conceived than described. Nothing is so mortifying to a passionate man, as to find his intended kindness of no avail; and Sir Ambrose, in the transport of his rage, vowed never to see his offending son again.

“Let me implore you to consider what you are doing!” said Dr. Coleman, when he heard this oath.

“Oh, my dear uncle!” cried Clara, clinging to his knees, “don’t say that you will never forgive him.”

“I never will!” exclaimed the enraged baronet, “I swear by all my hopes of happiness, here and hereafter, that I never will see his face again.”

“You will repent this rashness,” said Dr. Coleman, “when it is too late. I feel confident there must be some deception in the business.”

“Deception!” cried Sir Ambrose, eagerly, “by whom can it have been practised, and for what purpose? Pray explain yourself.”

“You will perhaps feel offended at what I am about to say, and probably will not believe me⁠—but in my opinion⁠—”

Here the worthy doctor was interrupted by the appearance of a round, fat, rosy-looking face, which just popped in for a moment at the door of the apartment, and was then instantly withdrawn.

“Good Heavens! I should surely know those features,” exclaimed Dr. Coleman, “and yet I hope⁠—I trust⁠—it cannot be.”

“Who is there?” cried Sir Ambrose, pettishly, “what do you want? and why are you ashamed of showing your face?”

That jolly face again made its appearance, but it was now accompanied by a portly body, which certainly did it no discredit, though it was clad in the garments of a priest.

“Sure and it is not my face that I’d be ashamed of showing, anyhow,” said the apparition, with a strong south country brogue; but “I it was that myself didn’t like to inthrude, and I was just looking for the docthor there.”

“And what is your will with me, Father Murphy?” asked Dr. Coleman, with an air of melancholy.

“Sure and I’d be afther telling ye directly, barring that I’ve a bit o’ a note here, that ’ill spak’ fasther than I can.”

So saying he presented a letter to Dr. Coleman, who opened and read it with considerable agitation.

“You’ll excuse me, Sir Ambrose, this is a matter of the greatest importance. So my young friend is waiting without? I must see him instantly. I must bid you adieu for the present, Sir Ambrose, but you shall see me again in a day or two. I have a friend, the son of an old friend, Mr. Henry Seymour, come to spend some time with me, I hope you will permit me to have the honour of introducing him to you; I am sure you will like him. He is a young Irishman; a very nice young man.”

After running through this speech with astonishing volubility, he hurried away, leaving Sir Ambrose excessively annoyed at his departure; and totally at a loss how to account for it, or how to class his strange visitor, till he recollected that Dr. Coleman had passed many years in Ireland; and that it was the illiberal policy of the king of that country to have his priests lowly descended and ill-educated men, lest they should acquire too much influence over his subjects, and become dangerous to his government. The Irish priests, thus divested of all the dignity of the sacerdotal character, gradually degenerated into a kind of privileged jesters, tolerated in every great house for the amusement they afforded, and obliged if they had any wit, to conceal under the appearance of folly. Father Murphy was evidently one of this humiliated class, and his connection with Dr. Coleman was easily accounted for, by supposing him to belong to some family Dr. Coleman had formed an acquaintance with, when in Ireland; but the mysterious allusion which the Doctor had made respecting Edric, was not so comprehensible, and Sir Ambrose waited eagerly for several days, in the hope that he would call to explain what he had meant. No doctor, however, arrived, and as the Duke’s mind was completely occupied by another subject, Sir Ambrose was left entirely to his own reflections, without having a single creature to whom he could impart them, or from whom he could hope for sympathy. The Duke, in fact, was a specimen of a class common enough in the world, of men whose minds will not hold more than one idea at a time, and his head was now so full of the splendid images connected with Edmund, that Edric’s rejection of Rosabella and subsequent departure were almost forgotten.

It was far otherwise with Sir Ambrose, who now began to repent, though secretly, of the unwarrantable severity with which he had treated his son. It is a trite though undeniable observation, that we never know the real value of any possession till we have lost it; and thus Sir Ambrose, though he had thought nothing of the respectful and dutiful attentions of his son, whilst he was in the habit of constantly receiving them, now felt their want, and regretted bitterly the ill-timed harshness that had deprived him of them forever. Still, however, he was too obstinate to own he had been wrong; and though he knew that by recalling his son he should restore his lost happiness, he, like many other persons in similar situations, most magnanimously determined to persist in being miserable.

Four days had elapsed since that on which Dr. Coleman had so abruptly left Sir Ambrose, ere he called again, and when he made his reappearance, he was accompanied by a tall, handsome young man, whom he introduced as Henry Seymour, and the good-humoured, though eccentric Father Murphy. Sir Ambrose received his guests very coldly, for he felt hurt by the doctor’s neglect; but the Duke, who, attended by Father Morris, happened to be with Sir Ambrose when they arrived, was quite enchanted with them, and when they rose to depart, gave them a general invitation to his castle. This courtesy, which seemed to displease alike Father Morris and Dr. Coleman, was accepted with transports by the strangers, especially by the younger, whose enthusiastic expressions of gratitude quite delighted the old Duke.

From this moment the fancy the Duke had so suddenly conceived for the strangers, rapidly became intimacy, and they were soon quite domesticated at the castle. Henry Seymour listened to the Duke’s stories⁠—laughed at his jokes⁠—admired his dogs and horses, and above all, approved of his improvements; whilst he talked and walked with Elvira, or read to her as she worked, or accompanied her when she sang or played, with his voice or flute. In short, he became quite l’ami de la maison, and was beloved by everyone in it, excepting Father Morris, Marianne, and Rosabella. Marianne he seemed to consider as quite beneath his notice, and Rosabella he was uniformly polite to; but Father Morris he evidently hated, and took very little pains to conceal his feelings. When these broke forth a little too strongly, Doctor Coleman would often look grave and shake his head, but in vain; prudence was not Henry Seymour’s forte: wit and good-humour danced gaily in his bright blue eyes; but the expression of violent passions often flitted in quick transition over his animated features, and he frequently appeared to have the greatest difficulty in restraining himself within due bounds.

His manners, too, were much too familiar for his station, and when disappointed in trifles, he often treated the Duke and princesses with unwarrantable haughtiness. Like a petted child, he was always either offending, or suing to be forgiven, and though on these occasions Doctor Coleman always whispered “Beware!” the admonition was generally forgotten at the very moment when it might have been of service. Notwithstanding this perverseness, it was impossible to know Henry Seymour without loving him, and his own affections seemed as warm as those he inspired. He loved the Duke and Elvira, respected Doctor Coleman, and was evidently tenderly attached to Father Murphy, though no two beings could be imagined more different than he and that reverend personage. Father Murphy, indeed, was a general favourite, and the whole household of the Duke concurred in thinking him quite a nonpareil of a priest; for, as he was not very fond of doing penance himself, so he was not very rigid in imposing it upon others, and consequently he and his penitents were always upon the best terms imaginable. In short, he seemed especially designed by Nature to be good friends with all the world; and on his side he certainly did the utmost not to thwart the beneficent old lady’s kind intentions.

The time now rapidly approached for Edmund’s return; letters had been received from him, announcing that he should be in England in a couple of days, and the Duke having made all the preparations possible, and twice as many as were necessary, for removing his whole household to town, became in an agony of impatience to set off. He had not permitted either Sir Ambrose or Elvira to inform Edmund of his approbation of his attachment; and he anticipated, with almost childish delight, the effect that would be produced on Edmund’s mind by the joyful intelligence. Elvira, however, did not appear to participate in her father’s pleasure, and as the hour approached for their departure for town, her spirits became evidently more and more depressed; whilst Henry Seymour’s gaiety seemed also to have quite deserted him, till the good-natured Duke compassionating his dejection, and really feeling sorry to part with so agreeable a companion, invited him to accompany them to London. Henry Seymour’s bright eyes sparkled with joy at this proposition, and seizing the Duke’s hand, he exclaimed⁠—

“I’ll go with all my heart⁠—and you are a dear good creature for thinking of asking me!”

“There’s nobody shall be more welcome,” returned the Duke, not at all offended with the familiarity of his young friend’s address, though it was quite out of all rule according to the bienséances of the age; “for I don’t know anybody I love better, excepting my old friend here, Sir Ambrose, and Edmund.”

“And Elvira and Rosabella, and me?” said Clara Montagu coaxingly.

“What should I love such a little hussey as you for, I wonder?”

“Oh, that I don’t know; but I’m sure you do love me, let you say what you will!” returned Clara, whom delight at the idea of her expected journey had made half wild.

“Good Heaven! Henry Seymour!” said Doctor Coleman, in an impressive tone; “you cannot surely be so mad as to intend going to London?”

“Why not? There is no danger, and if there were, would it not be worth braving in such a cause? By Heaven! I would leap over the crater of Mount Etna with such an object in view.”

“Well, you must do as you like. I know it is in vain to attempt to reason with you when you have made up your mind.”

“Quite, my dear doctor, so don’t waste your eloquence.”

“We shall set off tomorrow,” said the Duke: “I wish we were there.”

“What a pity,” remarked Henry, “that nature did not mingle a little patience with your Grace’s other good qualities.”

“It is, indeed;⁠—‘for patience,’ as Father Murphy says, ‘robs care of its bitterest sting.’ ”

“Och! and is it me ye’re quoting from, yere Grace? And where’s the use of that, pray? when ye know I’m just here and ready to quote for myself.”

“If all your observations are as good as that the Duke has just repeated,” said Sir Ambrose, “I don’t know anybody that might be quoted from with more advantage.”

“Sure! and is it of myself ye’re saying that?” asked Father Murphy, “for if ye are, ye never made a betther spach in all your life; only there’s a little misthake if ye think the observation ye’re talking of came out of my own head, for it didn’t do any such thing.”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Father Morris, who now approached, and who spoke with his usual satirical sneer: “No one who knows you will ever suspect you of anything so atrocious.”

“Good-nature and integrity are sometimes more than equivalent to brilliant talents,” said Sir Ambrose bitterly.

“True,” rejoined Father Morris, in one of his softest, most insinuating tones; “but they become inestimable when united, as in the example before us:” bowing to Father Murphy as he spoke. Sir Ambrose turned, and looked earnestly at the tall thin figure of the monk as he stood before him, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his head, as usual, bent towards the ground, but he did not speak.

“By the way,” said the Duke, “is it not strange that we have never heard anything of Edric since he left? I begin to think that it was all a planned thing, and they would have gone just the same if nothing had been said of Rosabella.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Sir Ambrose.

“I see no impossibility in the business,” resumed the Duke. “I think the case is clear. They did not know how to get off decently; and so Edric pretended to quarrel with you and me, to give the thing a face.”

“I cannot fancy Edric guilty of such meanness,” cried Sir Ambrose passionately.

“I don’t think the matter admits of a single doubt: I only wish I had not offered him my niece. What is your opinion of the subject, Father Morris?”

“Men devoted to austere professions like myself,” replied the priest, without raising his eyes from the ground, “know but little of what is passing in the world. Thus, though my body be no longer shrouded in the gloom of a cloister, my mind still remains too much abstracted from the busy scenes around me, for me to be a competent judge of the effect of human passions.”

“Och! then, ye are very right to say nothin’ about them,” cried Father Murphy; “for though I’m in a passion every day of my life, I nevher know what to say when I begin to talk of it. And so I jist think it’s the wisest way to holdth my tongue.”

Neither Sir Ambrose nor the Duke made any reply; and after settling that they should commence their journey on the following morning, they separated.