Meanwhile Louis sat at the feet of the lady Marcella, in a little summer-house in the garden, exchanging with her the long concealed tendernesses of their united hearts. Theirs was already a union of tried virtue with nobleness; and neither needed, nor admitted of any disguise.
Cornelia would not listen to the earnest supplications of him, whose voice, she tremblingly believed, might charm an angel from its orb; till Mr. Athelstone himself prevailed on her, to beguile his yet lengthened hours of confinement to his couch, by her society. There, she heard him tell of all his plans for rendering her union with an outlawed man, less like a banishment to herself. He spoke with reverence of the Electress of Bavaria; with enthusiasm of James Stuart.—"But there, Othello's occupation's gone!" exclaimed he; "the character of the present George of Brunswick has made my commission a sinecure."
"Your commission, my dear Wharton," rejoined the Pastor, "is a general one.—From Heaven, and not from man.—And it consists in properly applying your vast endowments of mind and fortune."
"To do that, can never be a sinecure. Whether you are to remain a statesman, or to commence a private career; to cultivate in yourself a disposition to befriend your fellow-creatures by every means in your power; whether by your purse, your influence, or your talents; is my acceptation of that difficult text in the Gospel, which says "Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, that when ye fail they may receive you into everlasting habitations!" We know that the mammon of unrighteousness is riches; or, in other words, worldly-power. We make these our enemies, when we use them to selfish and unworthy purposes. But we turn their dross into real gold;—we make them our friends, when, by their benevolent application, we lay them up as treasures in Heaven;—and, they will receive us there, into everlasting habitations!"
Wharton bowed his head, with the ingenuous docility that was in his heart; and the benign teacher left his pupil to the dearer, though no less serious converse of his niece.
With less profundity of feeling, but not less vivacity of happiness, Alice walked by the side of Ferdinand in the garden, and artlessly expressed to him her wonder, how any body could help admiring, and even loving Duke Wharton, who had ever passed an evening in his company.
"He is so very handsome;" said she, "and so very gay! and so very commanding in all he does, and says, and looks, that, at first sight one is quite frightened at the power all this threatens. But when we know him, he is so exhilarating, so amiable, that—that I do not wonder Cornelia should love as she does!"
"But you must not!" rejoined Ferdinand, putting her hand to his lips, "else I shall wish the storm had sunk him fifty fathoms below this island." "Don't be afraid of that!" returned she, blushing while she laughed; "Louis is fifty fathoms handsomer, and so much more joy-inspiring, that, in days of yore, I used to call him the angel Gabriel, always coming on some blessed salutation; if I escaped falling in love with him, I am sure you ought not to fear the Duke."
"Then, I am to suppose you love me, because I am the reverse of these two worthies?" returned Ferdinand, archly glancing in her face.
"There is so much of the coxcomb in the question," answered she, sportively shaking her head, "that I will gratify your vanity by the expected compliment."