“Ah, happy Isabel!” said Anne, sighing; “what rapture to await the coming of him one loves!”
“My sweet Anne,” returned Isabel, passing her arm tenderly round her sister’s slender waist, “when thou hast conquered the vain folly of thy childhood, thou wilt find a Clarence of thine own. And yet,” added the young duchess, smiling, “it must be the opposite of a Clarence to be to thy heart what a Clarence is to mine. I love George’s gay humour,—thou lovest a melancholy brow. I love that charming weakness which supples to my woman will,—thou lovest a proud nature that may command thine own. I do not respect George less, because I know my mind stronger than his own; but thou (like my gentle mother) wouldst have thy mate lord and chief in all things, and live from his life as the shadow from the sun. But where left you our mother?”
“In the oratory, at prayer.”
“She has been sad of late.”
“The dark times darken her; and she ever fears the king’s falseness or caprice will stir the earl up to some rash emprise. My father’s letter, brought last night to her, contains something that made her couch sleepless.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the duchess, eagerly, “my mother confides in thee more than me. Saw you the letter?”
“No.”
“Edward will make himself unfit to reign,” said Isabel, abruptly. “The barons will call on him to resign; and then—and then, Anne—sister Anne,—Warwick’s daughters cannot be born to be simple subjects!”
“Isabel, God temper your ambition! Oh, curb it, crush it down! Abuse not your influence with Clarence. Let not the brother aspire to the brother’s crown.”
“Sister, a king’s diadem covers all the sins schemed in the head that wins it!”