CHAPTER V.
The effect produced by the scene just described upon the minds of the multitude was magical. It seemed a confirmation "strong as proofs of holy writ" of all that had been urged against the Queen, and alienated from her side even those who had remained neutral.
"I really could not have believed it possible," said the Duke of Essex, as he retired slowly from the court.
"Thinking as I think, and as I am confident every one else must think," said Lord Gustavus, "she seems to have lost all sense even of common decency."
"What do you say to this, Sir Ambrose?" asked Dr. Hardman triumphantly.
"Nothing," replied Sir Ambrose, sighing.
"Then the case is hopeless," said the Duke of Essex; "for I know Sir Ambrose so well, that I am certain if a single word could be said in the Queen's behalf, he would not remain silent."
"Your grace judges me too favourably," returned Sir Ambrose; "for there is, on the contrary, much to be said for the Queen, if I had been disposed to say it. You see the story of her wishing to marry Ferdinand was evidently false, for she desired him in plain terms to quit the kingdom."
"A mere blind," cried Lord Gustavus, who felt he had now gone too far to recede; "an absolute farce; and I am only astonished a man of your penetration, Sir Ambrose, could have been deceived by it."
"It has long been the proudest boast of the English law," said Sir Ambrose, "that every one is presumed innocent till he be proved guilty; and I confess I do not see why the Queen should alone be made an exception to the rule."
Lord Gustavus made no reply, and the party proceeded to their several homes. The following day was appointed for the trial of Lord Edmund, and the court was, if possible, yet more crowded than before; for the singular termination of Prince Ferdinand's trial had created the most intense anxiety upon the part of the mob to know what would be the result of that of Lord Edmund. It has been already stated that he was the idol of the people, and now thousands of human voices shouted his praises to the sky, and heaped curses and execrations upon his enemies.
The tumult, however, was hushed to breathless expectation when it was announced that the officers of justice were gone in search of the prisoner; and innumerable human beings stood craning their necks over the lane made for his approach through the crowd, all eager to catch the first glimpse of him. But what language can express their disappointment and surprise when they saw the officers return, pale and trembling, fear painted upon their countenances, and their teeth chattering in their heads!
"He is gone," they cried: "the prison door was locked, and the windows fast, but he is gone; and doubtless some evil spirit has carried him off'."
Great was the consternation excited by this unexpected news; every one rushed to the prison, and each in turn was struck with horror on finding it exactly in the state the officers had described.—"It is the Mummy that has done this," said the people, whispering amongst themselves: "some horrible event certainly hangs over us; and it is in vain to attempt to resist our destiny! All is supernatural, and we are merely blind instruments in the hands of Fate."
The disappearance of Lord Edmund had, however, nothing supernatural in it; and, indeed was effected by very simple means, and mere mortal agents. The agitation of his mind after his interview with Cheops became excessive, and every hour seemed stretched to an unnatural length as he anxiously awaited Father Morris's return; but the monk came not. Lord Edmund's impatience increased every instant, till it became absolute agony; yet still he was alone. He paced his chamber with uncertain steps—his brain burning with incipient madness, till, no longer knowing what he did, he dashed his head against the walls, and tore off his hair by handfuls. In this state the gaoler found him; and reporting his condition, his trial, which was to have taken place previously to that of Ferdinand, was postponed a few days to allow time for his recovery.
Bleeding and blistering reduced Lord Edmund's fever; but his soul was still on fire. In the paroxysms of his disorder, no less than in his lucid intervals, one sole idea seemed to have taken possession of his fancy; and he inquired incessantly if Father Morris were returned? No, no, was the continual answer to his queries; till the heart of the poor prisoner sickened within him at the sound. At length, he appeared well enough to take his trial, and the day was fixed, as we have already stated. The mind of Edmund now seemed tolerably composed; but it was the stillness of apathy, rather than that of resignation; and on the night preceding the day fixed for his trial, some of his former anxious and tormenting fantasies returned.
"I will shake off this weakness," said he; "I will read;" and, drawing his chair near the fire, he took up a book: it was in vain, however; for though he read over the same page repeatedly, he could not compose his mind sufficiently to comprehend its meaning. He threw his book aside and, fixing his eyes upon the fire, was soon lost in gloomy meditations: when a slight noise attracted his attention; and, looking round, he saw a panel in the wall slowly detach itself, and Father Morris appear in the aperture, followed by another figure, closely wrapped in a large black cloak.
"Father Morris!" cried Edmund; "is it indeed Father Morris; or some kind spirit that has assumed his shape?"
"It is indeed I, my son!" returned the priest; "and I come to rescue and console you."
"Methinks you come somewhat late, father," said Edmund, rather coldly; "for I have suffered much since I saw you!"
"Others have suffered also," resumed the monk, "and for your sake! Notwithstanding you have fancied yourself neglected and forgotten by all the world, there is one human being who has never ceased to watch over you; who thinks only of you; who makes your happiness her only care; and who would sacrifice her life to preserve your's!"
Edmund's heart beat, and his cheeks glowed as he exclaimed, "And this kind friend is—"
"Now before you!" interrupted the monk; tearing aside the cloak that shrouded his companion, and discovering Rosabella!
"Rosabella!" exclaimed Edmund; a slight shade of disappointment passing over his features.
"Oh Edmund!" cried Rosabella, throwing herself at his feet, "can you forget that I have overstepped the bounds prescribed to my sex: will you not hate me?"
"I do not blame you. I were unworthy of the name of man if I could. But father, what says Elvira? Have you delivered the chain?"
"She refuses either to see or hear from you."
"Cruel woman! But perhaps she dreads to see me?"
"I know not; but she treated your petition with contempt. 'Tell him,' said she, 'it is not possible he can have aught to say that can interest me. I will not hear his suit.'"
"Proud, haughty princess! But was this all?"
"No: I again entreated her to see you, when she turned from me in scorn, and bade me leave her. 'Talk not to me of Edmund,' cried she, with a look of ineffable contempt. 'Has he not wounded Ferdinand, and would you have me forgive him?—a thousand deaths are not sufficient to punish such a crime!'"
"What strange infatuation!"
"Strange, indeed—for she has interrupted his trial and set him free; besides which, they say she has actually offered her hand and he has refused it; yet still she dotes upon him to distraction. 'Go,' continued she, when I had finished all I had to say, 'and tell Edmund, that I neither hate nor despise him, for he is incapable of exciting any emotion in my breast; however, if he wishes to make amends for his past conduct, and be restored to my favour, his first step must be, humbly to beg pardon of the prince.'"
"Damnation!" cried Edmund, starting up fiercely: "she did not, surely she could not, say that?"
"Indeed she did, my lord."
"Then may ten thousand curses light upon me if I forgive her! Pardon of that wretch! my slave! my prisoner! no, sooner would I expire in horrid torments—sooner be torn asunder by wild beasts.—Pardon of that boy!—oh! she could not mean it."
Whilst Edmund thus raved, Father Morris and Rosabella watched his torments with much of the same coolness, as a French philosopher would those of an unfortunate animal upon which he was trying experiments. No feeling of compassion entered their souls, and they only waited to see the effect their words would produce. It may easily be perceived that the whole scene which Father Morris related as having passed between him and Elvira, was a fabrication; but Lord Edmund saw not this, for jealousy often throws a veil over the eyes of its victims, which gives a delusive colouring to every thing they see. Thus, Lord Edmund believed every word the father uttered, and his whole frame trembled with agitation as he paced the room with hasty strides. At last, he threw himself upon a chair—"Beg his pardon!" exclaimed he: "Oh Elvira! Elvira!" and he hid his face in his hands, whilst the big tears trickled through his fingers, and Lord Edmund, the stern, courageous soldier, the philosopher, the hero, and the statesman, wept, actually wept, like a feeble child.
"Oh Edmund!" exclaimed Rosabella, approaching him, and taking his hand—"I cannot bear to see you in distress. Would to Heaven that by the sacrifice even of my life I could relieve you!"
"Rosabella, you will drive me to distraction."
"Not for worlds, Edmund; on the contrary, were I mistress of worlds, I would cast them at your feet."
"I know it—I know it; but spare me now."
"Spare you, Edmund! Spare what? spare my reproaches, mean you? Alas! you need not fear them. Am I not devoted to you? Is it not for your sake that I have thus passed the boundaries of my sex? Are you disgusted with my boldness? But no: you will surely forgive me, for my only motive has been to save you, and my only hope of happiness is bound up in yours."
"Rosabella!" repeated Edmund, "I believe that you love me."
"Love you! Oh heavens! can you doubt my love?"
"I do not doubt it, and this last action proves it more than words. I have long done you injustice; can you forgive me, Rosabella?"
"Oh Edmund!" exclaimed the princess, whilst her full heart heaved almost to bursting and the tears streamed down her face.
"I have been the victim of infatuation," continued Edmund; "I have loved a false, ungrateful woman, who has betrayed me. But I see my folly; and if tears of penitence shed at your feet can earn my pardon—if you will accept a broken, bleeding heart—"
"Oh Edmund!" interrupted Rosabella, throwing herself into his arms, "say no more—I am yours—yours for ever—your devoted slave—"
"Not my slave, Rosabella," said Edmund, gently disengaging her from him, and placing her upon a chair, "but my wife, my beloved wife."
"Your wife!" exclaimed Rosabella, "Edmund's wife! am I indeed so blest? Oh no! surely it is a dream, a fond delusive dream! You cannot surely be serious."
"Is this a moment for jest?" asked Edmund calmly.
"It certainly is not," said Father Morris, whose agitation had been nearly equal to their own, and who had stood gazing upon them with looks of the fondest affection. "We must immediately escape, or it will be too late; it wants but two hours of daybreak, and, with the dawn, Lord Edmund's trial will commence."
"True, true!" cried Rosabella, "I had forgotten. Dearest Edmund, you must condescend to fly, or your precious life will be sacrificed."
"But how shall I escape?"
"Through this panel. A balloon waits at a little distance, and this cloak will conceal your person from observation."
"Dear Rosabella!"
"Come, come," cried Father Morris, "we have no time to lose. Though Ferdinand was acquitted you must fall, for the state requires a victim."
Lord Edmund waited for no more; the name of Ferdinand was torture to him; and, hastily disencumbering himself of his chains, he followed the father and Rosabella from the prison. He sighed, however, and looked back for a moment with regret ere he quitted the outer walls, for he thought of Elvira. Rosabella's quick ear caught the sigh and her subtle spirit divined its meaning; but this was not a moment to complain, and stepping into their balloon they were soon out of sight of London. They proceeded to a palace of Rosabella's, a few miles out of town, and there, the following day, Edmund became her husband.
In the mean time, the excessive agitation Elvira experienced on the day of Prince Ferdinand's trial brought on a return of her fever, and it was several weeks ere she was sufficiently recovered to leave her bed. When she did so, however, she was really shocked at the state in which she found her kingdom. When she first began to reign, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, she had taken too much of the executive part of the government upon herself; and as her illness had been too sudden to allow her to appoint a regency, no one knew who ought to supply her place. All therefore was confusion and disorder, and Elvira shrunk disgusted from the chaos before her. She had now no Edmund to smooth the way for her, and the native energy of her mind was gone. Pale, heartbroken, and dispirited, she felt languid and incapable of the slightest exertion. What had formerly been a pleasure, was now become an overwhelming burthen, and the weight of life seemed insupportable.
She was now weary also of the fatigue necessary to carry on the plans she had projected for the benefit of her people. At first, when all seemed new and delightful, she had devoted herself entirely to their interests: she had denied herself even the most trifling pleasures, and scarcely allowed herself the time absolutely necessary for food and rest. This was all very well, whilst her plans had the charm of novelty, and were supported by passion. But now that novelty had worn off, and they had assumed the dull wearisome appearance of duties—when repeated disappointments had extinguished almost the hope of success, and when she found her people expected, nay, demanded as a right, that which she had originally granted them only as an especial mark of favour, she discovered, though too late, the folly of the toil she had imposed upon herself.
She now also discovered that improvement to be effectual must be slow: that people don't like to be forced out of old habits, till they have seen the effect of new ones proved by experience, and that nothing is so difficult as to improve people against their wills. Increase the resources of a country, throw money into the hands of the middling and lower classes, and they will improve themselves; but, at least, nine-tenths of a population will never suffer themselves to be improved. Those only who have attempted this thankless and painful office can fully estimate the sufferings of the unfortunate Elvira, who, disappointed in all she undertook, found life become tasteless and insipid, and was completely wretched,—though surrounded by all the gifts of beauty, power, and fortune.
Every thing seemed to conspire to increase her misery. Those whom she raised from indigence to affluence treated her with the most provoking insolence and discontent. A plan which had been opposed by the lords Gustavus de Montfort and Maysworth, and which she had persisted in having tried, had completely failed, and the noble Lords had triumphed in the most provoking manner in her disappointment. In short, every thing went wrong; and Elvira, disgusted with the world, felt mortified and disgusted with herself.
"How hard it is," thought she, frequently, as she tossed upon her sleepless couch, "that I who, since my accession to the throne, have devoted myself entirely to the interests of my subjects, should be thus wretched; whilst tyrants, who live but to oppress, sleep quietly upon their beds of down. Alas! why cannot I be as they are? Why cannot I divest myself of reflection, and enjoy the pleasures that surround me? But what pleasures can I enjoy? alas! the world presents nothing that can interest me; an insipid vacuum spreads through creation; my heart is cold and desolate; my affections are thrown back upon myself, and I am miserable."
Thus raved Elvira, and, absorbed in painful meditations, she neglected the duties of her station, and resigned herself to despair, whilst the people, attributing her evident wretchedness to her grief for the absence of Prince Ferdinand, who had left London immediately after his trial, and had not since been heard of, became every hour more and more discontented with their Queen.
In the mean time, the marriage of Lord Edmund, though not openly avowed, was generally suspected; and the party of Rosabella gained strength every day, whilst mysterious rumours were whispered from mouth to mouth, and divers hints given that many knew more than they chose to say; though from the immense number of these mystery-mongers it seemed, as in the celebrated scene in the Barber of Seville, that every one was in the secret, though nobody was to divulge it. The listlessness of Elvira soon produced the most serious effects. A kingdom without a government, or rather a government without a chief, cannot long go on well. It is like a ship at sea without a pilot, and it must founder upon the first rock that impedes its course.
When the vigour of government is from any cause relaxed, there are always plenty of persons ready to take advantage of the opportunity afforded them to commit evil with impunity; and crimes of every description multiplied so fast under the negligent sway of Elvira, that the people became clamorous in their complaints. But to whom could they address themselves? The Queen was rarely visible—Lord Edmund was gone, and the lords of the council were too busy talking about the interests of the people to think of really attending to them; whilst the duke and Sir Ambrose seemed too old to be likely to trouble themselves by intermeddling with an affair of state. To them, however, the people looked as a dernier resort; and as it seemed indelicate to apply to the duke when the person they complained of was his own daughter, they entreated Sir Ambrose to present a petition to the Queen in their behalf.
The worthy baronet acceded to their request, and though almost bent to the earth by age and misery, prepared once more to appear at court. The loss of his beloved Edmund had affected the old man deeply: he considered his flight before trial as a confession of guilt, and the thought of disgrace weighed down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. The distress of the people, however, roused him from the apathy into which he was fast falling; and when he waited upon the Queen, it was with all the energy of his former years.
The Queen received him sullenly. "I cannot help it Sir Ambrose," said she; "I am sorry for my people, but I cannot do any thing to relieve them. I feel that I am fast sinking into the tomb; do not then disturb my last moments by fruitless solicitations."
"Last moments!" cried Sir Ambrose, indignantly; "rally your energies, and you may live half a century. You give way to a morbid sensibility that oppresses you; and, because some of your hopes have been disappointed, you shrink from the duties that you have imposed upon yourself, and talk of your last moments. Shame! shame! Elvira! rouse yourself from this lethargy, and be indeed a Queen. Remember, that though Nature has ordinarily denied your sex the power of triumphing in the field, she has yet left a far greater conquest for you to achieve—the conquest of yourself; for it is far more glorious to subdue the wayward desires of the human heart, than to lead scores of monarchs captives in your chains. Struggle then with your feelings: conquer those fatal passions that threaten to destroy you; show yourself worthy of your crown, and be again the Elvira for whom even in her childhood, I anticipated greatness."
"It is too late," interrupted the Queen impatiently—"it is now too late. Urge me no more, Sir Ambrose, or you will drive me to despair."
Sir Ambrose was provoked at her obstinacy, and a pause ensued, which was broken by a tumultuous noise and shouting. It was the people at the gates of the palace, who, impatient at the length of Sir Ambrose's stay, were now becoming clamorous for an answer.
"What shall I say to them?" asked the baronet.
"Tell them I deny their suit!" replied the Queen. "Away, away, away! I would be quiet; go without reply; I will hear no more; I will not be tormented:" and waving her hand for him to depart, she hurried to her chamber. Finding there was no alternative, Sir Ambrose was compelled to appear before the people and acquaint them with the will of their Sovereign. The tumult became more violent as he spoke. An English mob is proverbially impetuous; and now their rage rose beyond control. "The Queen! the Queen!" they shouted; "we will see the Queen!" The crowd increased every moment—the multitude heaved in tremendous waves like the rolling billows of the sea, and the hum of thousands of human voices filled the air. They threatened to storm the palace. A man in complete armour, his face entirely concealed by his vizor, headed their attempts; the outer gates were forced, and the throng rushed tumultuously into the court of the palace.
All there was confusion: soldiers might have been summoned, and the place defended; but there was no one to give orders; and the servants ran to and fro in the greatest possible distress, without knowing either where they were going, or what they intended doing. In the midst of this bustle, Elvira sate burying her face in her hands, and obstinately refusing to take the slightest interest in the scene. The door opened violently, and Sir Ambrose and some of her principal servants rushed in. "For God's sake, save yourself!" cried they. "If your Majesty were safe, we care not for ourselves."
"Fly!" cried Sir Ambrose, throwing himself upon his knees before her, his white hair streaming almost to the ground; "for God's sake, fly!" It was too late, however, then, had the Queen been disposed to obey him; for, as he spoke, the outer door burst open with tremendous violence; the palace seemed to shake to its foundation with the shock; and in an instant the chamber was filled by the infuriated populace.
"Seize the Queen, but do not injure her!" cried a voice that thrilled through every nerve of Sir Ambrose. "Spare the old man; do not hurt a hair of his head." Sir Ambrose looked up; the voice came from the man in armour; but it was the voice of Edmund. A crowd of overwhelming thoughts rushed through his mind, and, overpowered by their weight, he sank senseless upon the ground. "Take him away!" cried Edmund; (for it was indeed he;) "take him away! but see that ye hurt him not: he dies that injures him."
"Edmund!" cried Elvira, struck also by his voice—
"To prison with her!" exclaimed he.
"To prison, Edmund! do you doom your Queen to prison? Is it thus you treat your Sovereign?"
"I own no Sovereign here but Rosabella."
"But, by what right can she be called your Sovereign?"
"By that which made you Queen. The people's voice. It lies with them to crown or to dethrone!"
"Oh Edmund! mercy!"
"Away with her! I'll hear no more."
The guards seized upon the unfortunate Queen, and, in spite of her entreaties, hurried her away. Edmund did not trust himself to look at her. For a moment he hid his face in his hands; then rousing himself, he exclaimed, "Now to proclaim the Queen!" The people followed him with shouts of applause, and before evening Edmund and Rosabella were unanimously acknowledged as King and Queen of England.