The Mummy (Loudon)/Volume 2/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
The day following was appointed for the departure of the two families of the duke and Sir Ambrose for the country; and the whole preceding evening was passed by the two old men in arranging their plans, and forming new schemes to ensure success. Elvira took no part in this conversation, though certainly the person most interested: she was thoughtful and distraite; she was too restless to remain in one place. She walked to the window; she returned, and she again sat down. She attempted to work, to read, to draw—all was in vain; all seemed tasteless and insipid. Again she went to the window, and, opening its folding doors, stepped out upon the balcony. It was a delightful night, and the air felt soft and warm. Vines, laden with their luscious fruit, twined from pillar to pillar of the balcony, forming a kind of verdant network, whilst the moon shone bright upon the lovely scene beyond. Below, a smooth green lawn stretched forth like a velvet carpet, bounded on each side by Chinese rose-trees, the delicate tints of which looked still more transparently beautiful in the lovely light. Behind these, rose trees of a loftier height and deeper shade, whilst at the extremity of the lawn wound the river. The clear moon-beams trembled on the gently rippling stream, and gave a transparent brightness to the graceful foliage of a weeping willow, which hung over the water, and quivered in every passing breeze.
Elvira gazed upon the fair scene before her, and sighed heavily as she gazed. A gentle sigh softly echoed hers, and she started to find that Henry Seymour was standing before her.
"How beautiful is Nature," said he, "when undefiled by the follies and sins of man. Here one might forget the world, and all its busy turmoil of deceit. When one gazes thus upon the sublime and lovely face of Nature, how poor do all the arts, the ambition, and the pitiful contrivances of man appear. The soul seems elevated to its proper sphere, and to long to throw off the frail covering of clay, which yet chains it down to the grovelling passions of earth, and to soar triumphant to its native skies."
His fine eyes were turned to heaven as he spoke; and Elvira gazed upon them and his noble countenance beaming: with enthusiasm, till she quite forgot to reply.
"Do you not agree with me, Elvira!" said he, in a tone of the softest melody, fixing his eyes upon hers with a look that sank deep into her heart. Again she sighed deeply, but she could not speak. "Oh, Elvira," continued he, taking her hand; "will you forget me? will not the remembrance of this night form a tie between us, when we shall be far, far apart?"
"Apart!" cried Elvira, almost with a shriek of surprise.
The youth sighed; and, gazing earnestly upon her blushing face, whispered tenderly, as he pressed her hand to his heart, "O that I could flatter myself sorrow mingled with that sigh."
"Why, what is this?" said the old duke, bustling to the window; "the doctor tells me you are going to leave us. Surety you might contrive to stay till after the election."
"I am very sorry, Sir," said the youth; "but the circumstance that calls me away—"
"Ay, ay, the doctor told me; a near relation dangerously ill, that can't die in peace till he's seen you. Well, well, my boy, such things must be; and if he's doomed to die, I only wish him an easy death, and you a good legacy."
"I cannot tell you how sorry I am to part with you," said Sir Ambrose, who now advanced, "nor how sincerely I wish you good fortune."
"Thank you, thank you. Sir," said the youth: "alas! I now feel how poor words are to express my gratitude for all your kindness. But—"
"I am sorry to hasten you, Mr. Seymour," said Dr. Coleman, who now approached; "but time wears apace."
"True, true," said Henry, "I had forgotten. Once more farewell. God bless you all!" and he hurried away, as though fearful of his own resolution if he ventured to stay another second. For the rest of the evening, Elvira was silent and abstracted; the suddenness of the blow seemed to have stunned her, and she felt like one wandering in a dream. Was he really gone? Should she never see him more? were questions she scarcely dared even to ask herself. "He was nothing to me, a mere common acquaintance," she repeated incessantly; and yet she felt a wearisome void, a sickening disgust and impatience at every thing around her, which she had never experienced before. "What can be the matter with me," said she peevishly; "I shall never see him again; and it is the excess of weakness to feel an interest in the fate of one, who is evidently so indifferent about me; and yet he seemed affected when he said we were about to part. Was he really so? But of what consequence to me is it whether he were so or not. I shall never see him more." And Elvira sighed involuntarily at the thought. "I am devoted to other prospects. I—in short, I will think of him no more." And, in pursuance of this magnanimous resolution, she thought of nothing else all night.
The following day, Elvira and her friends went into the country; but, as Cheops had predicted, the duke and Sir Ambrose proved quite unequal to the task they had undertaken, and they only lost their popularity by the attempt. Men were disgusted to see personages hitherto considered so respectable descend to meanness, and the shallowness of the artifices by which it was intended to impose upon them excited their contempt. In the mean time, Lord Edmund was not more successful in London than his friends in the country: he had marched a chosen body of troops within a convenient distance of the metropolis; in consequence of which ill-judged measure, the members of the council, to show that they were not influenced by the fear of military authority, and to vindicate their independence, invariably opposed every measure that he suggested.
As the law, however, forbade any decisive promises till the actual day of election, there was still hope, though the friends of Elvira struggled on, rather from a wish not too hastily to abandon her cause, than from any rational, well-founded prospect of success.
In the midst of these anxieties, Elvira's health indeed seemed rapidly declining. A weight that nothing could alleviate, hung upon her spirits; she made no effort to secure voters; but pale, silent, and melancholy, she glided about—the ghost of her former self. Still, however, she was lovely; the increased delicacy of her complexion, and shadowy lightness of her form, harmonized well with the general style of her beauty; whilst her fine eyes, shaded by their long silken lashes, only shone more brilliantly from the glowing hectic of the cheek below.
The time fixed for the important ceremony now rapidly approached; the election of the deputies was concluded, and the families of the duke and Sir Ambrose prepared to return to town. The night, however, before they departed, the duke gave a grand fête champêtre to the neighbouring gentry; and as a considerable number of the deputies were expected, he particularly enjoined Elvira to exert herself to the utmost to win their suffrages. Never perhaps had Elvira looked more beautiful than she did that night, as, pale, trembling and timid, she received her numerous guests; and never, perhaps, was effect more magical than that which her appearance produced. Her very diffidence and modesty attracted; and the reserve, with which she shunned, rather than sought the attention of the crowd, completed the enchantment.
"It is her fear of seeming to wish to interest us," whispered one deputy to another, "that makes her treat us so coldly."
"Yes," replied the other; "and I like her the better for it. If she were to attempt to make herself agreeable, I should hate her; the duke and Sir Ambrose have sickened us of that!"
The fête was given in the gardens of the duke, which were beautiful and extensive, and now brilliantly illuminated by lamps suspended from the trees. There was something, however, not quite congenial to Elvira's taste in thus marrying the gorgeous splendour of art to the simplicity of nature, and she sighed heavily as she watched the flaring lamps scorching the calm pale verdure of the trees.
"Now this is as it should be," said the old duke, as he led his daughter to the pavilion appointed for her to receive her guests; "Elvira now looks like herself. Does she not. Dr. Coleman?"
The doctor shook his head: "I fear," began he—
"Oh! we will have no fears to-night!" cried the duke gaily; "remember, Elvira! every thing now depends upon you. Play the part of the smiling, condescending hostess; win the hearts of the deputies, and you will make that of your old father leap for joy. We shall have a gay party, sha'n't we, doctor?" continued he, eyeing the groups as they advanced. "I wish your friend, Henry Seymour, were here amongst us."
Elvira started, and deep blushes suffused her cheeks at the mention of this name. The doctor eyed her attentively, though he replied as though he had not noticed her agitation. "It was urgent business, you know, that obliged him to leave England."
"He was a charming youth," said the duke; "so gay and yet so fearless. I think, however, I observed that his spirits seemed much depressed the last time I saw him."
"You know he said it was the death—I mean the illness of a relation, that compelled him to go."
"Young men don't generally feel so much for the illness, or even death of old ones," returned the duke: "now, if I were to judge, doctor, I should think it far more likely it was some love affair. But we can't stay talking about it now. I must go, and attend to my guests: and do you mind, Elvira, and make yourself agreeable."
Poor Elvira, however, was, perhaps, never less fitted to obey her father's injunctions than at this moment; for the conversation she had just heard, had quite deranged her nerves. Her father's supposition inflicted a deep pang on her heart; and though she went through the duties of her station mechanically, her mind wandered to Henry Seymour.
It was a lovely night, and the general effect of the scene, as groupes of elegantly-dressed people flitted to and fro through the lighted groves, was striking in the extreme. Beautiful flowering exotics decorated the pavilion of Elvira, and the balmy air that fanned their blossoms, seemed loaded with sweets; whilst the richly illuminated castle, rearing its lofty towers in awful grandeur in the distance, had the appearance of a fairy palace.
Elvira listlessly gazed upon the magic scene, till she felt almost fainting with the fatigue her situation as hostess imposed upon her; and she looked with a languid and almost despairing eye upon the crowds that came still pouring into the gardens. The throng, however, now opened, and a tall and dignified figure found its way through the mass. It was Lord Edmund: he approached rapidly, and threw himself at Elvira's feet: "My adored Elvira!" exclaimed he.
"You here, my Lord?" cried the princess; whose eyes, enfeebled by exhaustion, had not permitted her to recognise him till he was immediately before her: "I did not expect to see you here to-night!"
"Does my presence pain you then?" said Lord Edmund, looking at her attentively. "They told me you were ill, and I do indeed find you changed."
"I am better now," returned Elvira faintly.
"Do not deceive yourself," cried he, with the most intense anxiety. "You are ill—you are not equal to this fatigue. Retire from this scene, it will destroy you."
"I dare not," replied Elvira, still more feebly, "without permission from my father; though, I own, I do feel exhausted!"
Lord Edmund waited for no more; but darted to find the duke, and obtain his wished for sanction. The next instant, his place was supplied by Prince Ferdinand, who had been invited into the country a few days before by the duke; and who, with the inconstancy natural to his disposition, had now become as deeply smitten with Elvira, as he had before been with Rosabella. Elvira, however, saw him not; and, looking gratefully after Lord Edmund, sighed profoundly as she lost sight of him among the crowd.
"Happy Edmund!" said the prince; "what would I not give to create a feeling in that lovely bosom, like that caused by thy absence!"
Elvira blushed at the earnest gaze of the youthful German, as she replied, without exactly knowing what she said, "Do you suppose, then, that the absence of Lord Edmund gave me pain?"
"What other cause can I divine for your melancholy?" said Ferdinand. "Adored by every heart, admired by every eye, and blest at once with rank, beauty, and affection, what can Elvira wish?—and what can cloud her brow with sorrow, or heave her lovely bosom with a sigh, unless it be the loss of the favoured lover whom ambition bids her sacrifice?"
"And think you so poorly of me," returned Elvira indignantly, "as to suppose, if I really loved Lord Edmund, that ambition would tempt me to sacrifice him?"
"Can a heart like yours then be really dead to love?" said the prince, gazing upon her earnestly. "Can Nature have formed such exquisite beauty, and forgotten to give a soul to pity the wretches it must make?"
Elvira blushed deeply as he spoke, for his ardent look embarrassed her; and her eyes having been modestly withdrawn, again met those of Lord Edmund, who had returned without her perceiving him. 'Twas but for a moment, however, that she gazed upon him, for she shrank aghast from his withering glance. Jealousy and hatred curled his lips, and darkened upon his brow; whilst his features seemed so changed, that Elvira could scarcely believe he was indeed the same she had so lately spoken with.
"I beg your Highness's pardon," said he haughtily; "I would not have presumed to intrude, if I had known you were engaged. I fancied that you wished to retire, and had obtained the duke's permission for your doing so; but—"
"Oh, thank you! thank you, Edmund!" cried Elvira; "most gladly will I seek my chamber." Then marking a slight smile upon Prince Ferdinand's face, she hesitated, for she recollected the interpretation he had put upon her melancholy and indifference. Lord Edmund's agony was beyond description: he saw her hesitation; he saw her look at Ferdinand, and fancying she sought his approval before she would retire, his jealous rage was unbounded and, darting at her a look of ungovernable passion, he sprang from the pavilion, and was out of sight in an instant. Elvira could not bear his look, nor his unreasonable jealousy; and, exhausted by her previous fatigue, she fainted. A crowd soon gathered round her, and she was carried to her chamber in a state of insensibility.
"Mark me!" said a figure muffled in a thick cloak, speaking in a deep, low whisper, as he laid his hand upon the arm of Father Morris, who stood gazing after Elvira, with a look of intense anxiety; "she must not die; for if she does, I swear by the holy tomb of Osiris at Philæ, Rosabella never shall be Queen!"
From that hour, Elvira recovered; and the consumptive symptoms, that had so strongly excited the alarm of her friends, entirely disappeared.
Lord Edmund was conversing earnestly with one of the deputies, and, notwithstanding his jealousy, advocating the cause of Elvira with vehemence, when he was informed that she had fainted: his first impulse was to fly to her assistance; and when he found she had been removed to her chamber, his heart smote him for the cruel manner in which he had left her.
"She was really ill," thought he; "and, in her feeble state, my harshness overpowered her. But never again shall my foolish jealousy disturb her peace. No! let her scorn me—hate me, if she will. I will bear all the tortures she can inflict, rather than again hazard wounding that gentle bosom. Let her smile on whom she lists, even upon that hated German, I will not repine: if she be happy, I will ask no more."
Thus thought Edmund, and he knew not that he deceived himself, till he saw Prince Ferdinand, who, with the happy elasticity of youth, was chatting gaily with one of the beauties of the court. "Love him!" thought he, as a scornful smile passed over his features—"love him, did I say? Oh, no! it is impossible; I could not endure to see her love that coxcomb:" and, shuddering with the torments of jealousy, he turned away.
Cheops was near him, muffled in a thick cloak that shrouded him from observation; the Mummy marked the changes in Lord Edmund's countenance, and read well the feelings they betrayed.
"Yes, even he," said he, with one of his fearful laughs, "will soon be mine; for never yet did man trust in his own strength, that did not fall."