"In mind, though not in body," replied Rosabella, throwing herself upon a sofa, and hiding her face in both her hands. "Oh, Marianne! what a wretch I am!"
"What is the matter?" asked the suivante.
"He loves her! he adores her!" cried Rosabella, starting from her couch and traversing the room rapidly. "Curses on her beauty! O 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! I saw Father Morris put a letter into her hands, which was enclosed in that addressed to Sir Ambrose. I saw a blush of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks as she perused it, 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 wonder Father Morris gave her the letter."
"He could not help it, Marianne. It fell from its enclosure when Sir Ambrose tore it open; but she saw it fall. I even saw her eye rest upon the address; Father Morris merely picked it from the ground, and placed it in her hands."
"I thought he would not have given it to her voluntarily."
"No; I think not. I believe the father is my friend, though I own sometimes it appears strange to me, Marianne, that he should seem to prefer my interest to that of every one else, when so many ties bind him to Sir Ambrose's family, and so few to me: nay, though I am often peevish and unreasonable with him, he never is offended, and appears to remain still as warmly attached to me as before:—I cannot account for it."
"He has ties that bind him to you that you know not of," said Marianne, in a low, under voice; "he was your father's friend."
"Was he?" cried Rosabella, eagerly; "then perhaps he may enable me to clear off the shade that has so long hung upon my father's name. By heaven! neither the gratification of my love nor of my revenge would give me half the pleasure."
"You had better not ask him," said Marianne, in the same low, mysterious tone; "you can learn nothing upon that subject which it would give you pleasure to hear." Then changing her voice, she added, "But what said Edric to the news of his brother's glory?"
"I know not—I care not! Ice itself cannot be colder than Edric. When we met, and he offered his hand to greet me, his touch seemed to freeze my very veins. Cold, prudent, calculating, and cautious, he has all the vices of age without its excuses:—I hate him!"
"You do not then, I suppose, long for the moment when you are to become his bride?" asked the companion, with a sarcastic smile.
"Long for it, Marianne?" cried Rosabella, starting from her couch, and clasping her hands together with energy—"long for it! No; if all other resources fail, death shall free me before the hated moment arrives." And as she spoke, Rosabella walked up and down the room, in a state of violent agitation.
"But your uncle?" resumed Marianne.
"My uncle!" repeated Rosabella, stopping short, "yes, yes; my uncle is positive—and I—a poor dependant, and in his power. But even that shall not control my will. Poor and dependant as I am—I am free; and sooner would I labour for my bread, sooner would I perish in the streets, or endure unheard of torments, than live in a palace surrounded by crowds of adoring slaves, if the price were that I must call Edric husband."
Marianne, satisfied with the ease with which she found she could play upon the feelings of her mistress, now touched a chord that thrilled to softer emotions.
"I can never believe," said she, "that a mind so noble as that of Edmund, can long remain in the thraldom of Elvira. When he comes to know her better, and to feel the feebleness of her soul, he must despise her."
"Ah! do you think so?" cried Rosabella eagerly. "But you deceive yourself, Marianne; Edmund is so blinded that he fancies her very faults perfections."
"But that blindness cannot last for ever, and when it wears off, disgust must ensue."
"Oh, Marianne, if it were so!" exclaimed Rosabella; and, sitting down, she rested her elbows on her knees, and pressed her hands against her beating forehead, concealing her face and remaining apparently lost in meditation. Marianne did not disturb her. She was aware that she had given her active imagination a theme to work upon, and she left her to enjoy it; tranquilly resuming her usual avocations without seeming to notice her abstraction.
Whilst this scene was passing in the apartment of Rosabella, Elvira was informing her confidant, Emma, who had been her governess and remained her companion, of the pleasure she had experienced from hearing of the success of Edmund, and from the tenderness of his letter. "How I wish I could love him as he deserves," said she, "but, alas, I fear it is not in my nature. I can scarcely even comprehend what he thinks I ought to feel, and the violence of his manner terrifies me beyond expression. Is it not extraordinary, Emma, that this passion, which seems so universally extended throughout all nature, should be alone a stranger to my breast—that I alone, should be debarred from feeling its influence? Edmund complains of my coldness; and I feel that he has reason to do so. I feel that his love is different from mine: I esteem and respect him; I have even a sincere friendship for him, and no one values his worth more than I; I should also be very sorry if any misfortune were to befall him; but this is all, and I do not think I am capable of feeling more for any one."
"Indeed you deceive yourself," replied Emma; "I am sure a heart so kind and affectionate as yours is capable of love. Do not marry Lord Edmund; I am certain you do not love him as you will love one day: and if a day should arrive, when you feel a real passion, what will be your horror at the recollection of the sacred ties which bind you to one who is indifferent to you. I shudder at the thought."
"And so should I, Emma; but that it is impossible such an event can happen. If I were married to Edmund, I never could love another, even if my nature were susceptible of the passion: a fact I much doubt."
Emma shook her head incredulously. "Oh!" sighed she; "how little do you know of love!"
"I know more of it than you imagine. In my opinion, people would never fall in love, if they had abundance of other thoughts to occupy their minds. They would marry, of course: but that, as every body knows, is quite a different thing."
"Then you disbelieve in love entirely?"
"Not entirely; but I think what is generally called love is the offspring of idleness. When people have nothing to do, particularly if they happen to have warm imaginations, they amuse themselves by picturing an idol of perfection. This they endow with all kinds of virtue probable and improbable; and they are enchanted with the fantasy, because it is their own creation. They soon find a face or figure that pleases them, and to this they attach the charms they had before given their imaginary idol—no matter whether they accord or not. When people are what is called in love, they are like persons in green spectacles, they see every thing of a colour that does not really belong to it. Marriage, however, lifts up the magic veil, and displays the real faults and imperfections of each individual. The self-deluded mortals then find out their mistake, though too late; and start back aghast at the appalling spectre that presents itself, crying out bitterly against deception; whilst, in fact, they have been only deceiving themselves."
"You reason admirably; but it is only from the head, not the heart. If you had ever felt, you would perceive the fallacy of your arguments."
"I