"What is the matter with you, my dear child?" asked the doctor.
"Nothing," said Clara, sighing.
"And I don't know any thing that can be worse," said Father Murphy, who happened to be present; "for that's the speech a young lady always makes when she's in love, and I don't know any disease that's harder to cure."
"In love!" cried Mr. Montagu, roused from his lethargy by that ill-omened word, which generally grates so harshly upon the ears of parents and guardians. "In love!" repeated he, looking earnestly at his daughter; "who can she possibly be in love with?"
"Ay, that's the question," said his wife: "for I'm sure I never trust her from under my own eye; and I'll defy her to fall in love without my knowing it. No, no, she cannot be in love."
"Och! and that's no rason at all," cried Father Murphy, "for I never knew of watching doing any good at all in such matters."
"Well, Clara," said Dr. Coleman, "you hear Father Murphy's opinion; do you plead guilty to the charge?"
Clara's blushes became deeper, and her agitation so excessive, as Dr. Coleman fixed his eyes upon her, that, finding she could not bear his looks, she burst into tears, and hurried out of the room. Poor Clara! the fangs of the most cruel of passions had indeed pierced thy heart, though thou wast unconscious of it thyself!
It may be remembered, that, on the day of Edmund's triumph, Clara had been forcibly struck by the fine figure and noble appearance of a youth, who had walked as prisoner in the procession. It was Prince Ferdinand; who, having formed a strong intimacy with Lord Edmund, had been an almost constant visitor at the house of Mrs. Montagu ever since. Clara was just at the age when the human mind first begins to feel the want of something to love. In her own family, her affections had been thrown back upon herself; and, being driven to the regions of fancy to find an object to occupy her heart, she would often wander for hours together in the garden, picturing to herself adventures, which she would paint in all the vivid colours of imagination; till, lost in creations of her own, she would almost forget the tame, cold realities of life.
Of course, all these imaginary adventures could not exist without a hero; but Clara could never fix upon any definite form to bestow upon him, till she had seen Prince Ferdinand. Then, all her dreams seemed realized; and the secret God of her idolatry appeared to stand before her, in propriâ personâ. Clara was now perfectly happy; and as, from the prince's frequent visits to her cousin, she now often passed whole days in his society, though he perhaps scarcely saw her, or at most regarded her but as a pretty child, yet she was satisfied: she saw him, and she heard him speak; what more was wanting to complete her dream of bliss?