A tale so sad and interesting as that we have recited soon found its way to the inhabitants of the castle, particularly as De Clavering had been called in to the assistance of the dying Lucy.
The melancholy scene he witnessed, as we may imagine, made a lasting and forcible impression upon a heart so tender and susceptible as his, and he did not fail to make such comments upon it, as he hoped would have some weight on the minds of those to whom they were addressed; but he did not succeed in his design; for, whatever Sir Philip de Morney might think, he chose, and took care to keep to himself, and the Baron not even condescending to make any observations on a subject in which he did not appear to feel the least interested, and which he considered as being too romantic and childish to merit the attention of a person in his high station.
Lady de Morney and the young people wept for the fate of Narford and Lucy, while the latter wondered any parents could be so cruel as to separate such fond and faithful lovers.
Notwithstanding the utmost pains had been taken to conceal the cause of the Baron's sudden indisposition, it had in part transpired, owing, as we may presume, to the irresistible propensity, and restless curiosity, the Baron's servant felt to know all his master's secrets, and his great eagerness to impart them when known. Some words, which had dropped from the Baron to his friend Sir Philip, the evening of the alarm, just as Pedro was ordered out of the room, unfortunately caught his ear, which was instantaneously applied to the key-hole of the door to obtain farther intelligence; and, though he could not so exactly understand the story as to connect it with accuracy, he picked up enough of it to make him desirous of knowing the whole; and, having heard the word ghost uttered more than once with great emphasis, it gave him some suspicion that his master's illness originated from a fright, and the more than usual earnestness, with which he asserted the truth of what he had been saying, confirmed Pedro in this opinion.
Thus the half-formed tale was whispered under the most solemn promises of secresy from one to another, till every servant in the family had gleaned up something, without any one of them knowing what it meant.
A few nights after, as Pedro was attending his master, when he was going to bed, he determined to make one more effort to discover the whole story, and try whether he could not prevail on the Baron to entrust him with a secret he would have given some part of his wages to find out. He opened this important business as follows.
"I shall be heartily glad, my lord, when we get from this castle, and return to your own."
"Why so? (inquired his master:)—my friend, Sir Philip, is very hospitable, and his family infinitely charming."
"Yes, yes, I dare say, my lord, in your opinion the young ladies are charming creatures, and I fancy they are not a whit less pleased with your lordship."
"Do you think so, Pedro? (said the Baron, in one of his most harmonious tones, his pride and self-love being gratified by his servant's observation.)—Why, indeed, I had never much reason to complain of the ladies' coolness."
"It would certainly be surprising if you had, my lord. A man of your rank, fortune, and figure, is not very likely to meet with coldness; it is only such a poor ugly dog as I am that must expect to be frowned upon by the women."
"Oh! then, Pedro, (said the Baron smiling,) a disappointment in love makes you wish to quit this place."
"No, my lord. I complain of nothing in the day;thatgenerally passes off very well; but, in the night, there are so many cursed ghosts clattering about, with such confounded nosies at their heels, both within and without doors, that a man can neither sleep nor move with comfort or security."
"Psha! (replied the Baron,) let me hear of no such idle and improbable tales.—I did not suppose you so great a fool or so dastardly a coward as to mind the nonsense of women and children."
"As to that, (said Pedro, nettled by the contemptuous manner of the Baron, and the epithet of coward,) I have as much courage as most men amongmen; but, when I am forced to mix with ghosts and evil spirits, I want a little spice of the courage with which your lordship is so bountifully endowed. I dare say, my lord, you never saw a ghost, and were never frightened either by the living or the dead."
"What should I be frightened at? (cried the Baron impatiently;) let me hear no more such impertinent nonsense."
"I hope (muttered Pedro) the next time they come, they will pay you another visit. It is an honour due to your dignity, and we servants can very well dispense with their company;" but this was said in so low a voice, as he shut the door, that it was impossible to be understood by the imperious master to whom it was addressed. "As much a coward as I am, (continued he, as he went along,) I was never frightened into a fit as some folks have been with all their boasted courage and great knowledge."
Notwithstanding the Baron was so much alarmed by the appearance of his Isabella, that he could scarcely shake it from his mind a moment, and remained in a state of anxiety and terror, yet it was impossible he should be any longer blind to the dejection of Roseline, or insensible of her cold indifference. If she met him with a smile, it was visibly the smile of anguish. She sometimes appeared to avoid him, and more than once had made an effort to leave him at the very instant he was addressing her in one of his fondest and most impassioned speeches.—Sir Philip was his friend; on him he had conferred many favours: it was both his interest and inclination to bring about an union between him and his daughter. It was possible he might have deceived him as to the real situation of her heart;—the thought was too alarming to his feelings and his pride to be easily got rid of. Roseline was often absent, and that for several hours together: it looked suspicious. He would no longer trust either the father or the daughter; but, with the assistance of his man Pedro, who was a shrewd fellow at finding out a secret, he would endeavour to discover whether he was not right in his conjecture of having a rival. Sir Philip had certainly promised more for his daughter than he supposed him authorised to do, or than the young lady herself was able or willing to ratify: he determined therefore to get rid of his doubts as soon as possible, and either obtain the prize he had in view, or withdraw himself for ever from the castle.
Audrey, who had in the mean while picked up a vague unconnected account of what had happened in respect to the ghost, was eager to tell the wonderful tale to Roseline, who, though incredulous as she had ever appeared to all the marvellous tales she had imparted to her, ought to be informed of this, she thought, as it was so connected with the history of her intended husband. She luckily met her young lady on the stairs, put her finger on her lips to imposed silence, and, with much solemnity in her look and manner, beckoned her to follow her into the gallery, when, stepping into the first room she came to, she thus eagerly began.
"Well, miss, it was as I said; the Baron is no better than he should be. I have waited successfully these three days to tell you so; but you are grown so preserved and so shy, a body can seldom catch a moment to speak to you."
"What is the matter, my good Audrey?"
"Matter enough on my conscience, if one believes all one hears! Only think, miss, of a ghost, that should have been minding its business at the Baron's own castle, having taken the trouble of following him to this upon some special business it had to municate. However, travelling three or four hundred miles is nothing to a ghost, that can, as I have heard, go at the rate of a thousand miles in a minute, either by land, sea, or water, it matters not to them; but we could have expenced with such visitors, God help us! for we have enow such that go with the castle, and, 'tis said, must do so till the day of judgment."
Roseline, who paid but little attention to Audrey's tales, smiled at this, and gave her a sly look of incredulity, which convinced her of her unbelief. This was a kind of claim upon her to confirm it more strongly.
"Well, you may think as you please, Miss Roseline, the Baron was actilly scared into a fit of arpaplexy at seeing his own wife, all in white, the very moral of herself when alive; and, what is more, she held a knife and a lighted a candle in her hand, and shewed him the wound in her bosom which casioned her death; and she sneered at him, shaked her ghostly head, grinned, and, as he was found upon the floor, 'tis supposed she knocked him down, and then went away in a sky-rocket, or a squib, or some such thing, as belong to those sort of hanimals; for the noise she made at going off was so great and amendous, it broke the drum of Pedro's ear, and left the Baron in a state of sensibility."
"I would advise you, Audrey, (said Roseline,) not to give credit to such improbable tales, and never again to repeat this which you have been telling me."
"'Tis genevin, miss, I assure you. I had it from Pedro's own mouth; so, if you are determined to marry a man haunted by the ghost of another wife, you must abide by the incision. She was certainly sent out of the world unfairly, or why should she not rest in her grave as quietly as other folks?"
Roseline, much as she disliked the Baron as a lover, had too much respect for her father's friend to permit her servant to speak of him so freely, and to lay so dreadful a crime to his charge, which she concluded, like the story of the ghost, was merely the invention of evil-minded people.—She therefore reproved Audrey with a seriousness that alarmed her, and assured her, if she ever again presumed to mention Baron Fitzosbourne in terms so disrespectful and degrading, she would instantly request her father to send her from the castle.
The prating Abigail, finding her young lady really displeased, chose to alter her tone.—To be sure she might have been wrong informed; the world was a wicked place, and some people were sadly entreated in it:—the Baron was a gentleman,—a powerful fine gentleman it was successively hard to be belied;—no one could expence with that:—he was a lord into the bargain, notwithstanding his methodicalness, had some good qualities, and, for certain, was as fine a pice of 'tiquity as any that hung up in the great hall, and looked as antic as the old walls covered with ivory.—Roseline made no answer to this curious eulogium, and Audrey very soon took herself away.
The Baron was not long in determining how to proceed. He became resolute to satisfy his doubts respecting his having a rival. It was neither improbable, nor unlikely, that some of the young officers, stationed in or about the castle, might have designs inimical to his. The lady herself might have favoured their pretences unknown to her father; and, if so, he should run some risk in making her his wife.—The thought was too painful and degrading to be supported, and the critical situation of affairs would not admit of longer deliberation.
The month was on the very eve of terminating, at the expiration of which Sir Philip had promised him the hand of his daughter; yet the young lady was not more conciliating, or less coy and distant in her behaviour to him, than she had been the first day of their meeting. Pedro was summoned, and for some time was closeted with his master. He was promised a liberal reward if he could get into the good graces of the female servants, and make himself master of the young lady's secrets; luckily for our heroine, she had not made a confidant of any one of them.
This Pedro undertook, as he had already began to make love to Audrey, who, in her moments of conceding tenderness, had told him all she knew, making some additions of her own; but the whole amounted to but little more than—her young lady was strangely altered: it might be, her love for the Baron had produced this change; but, for her part, she could not think it possible for any one to like such an old frampled figure.
The Baron next proposed that Pedro should accompany him, in taking a ramble about the castle, after the family had retired to rest, to reconnoitre the premises, and learn, if possible, from what quarter they were most exposed to danger. He determined to explore all the secret passages, for he could not help cherishing suspicions that lovers might be admitted, and intrigues carried on, unknown to the most watchful and careful parent; and to what but the prevailing influence of a favoured rival could he impute the uncommon and increasing coldness of Roseline?
It was not to be wondered at that the Baron was alarmed, for the conduct of his daughter had not escaped the eyes of Sir Philip, who, chiefly displeased with what he termed her obstinacy and caprice, in order to compel her to his purpose, had, notwithstanding he promised to drop the subject for a month, found it necessary to caution her to be more guarded and respectful in her behaviour, at the same time assuring her he would not survive the disappointment of his hopes, in seeing her united to his friend; adding another horrid threat, that, if she betrayed his design, in that moment she would terminate her father's existence.
This dreadful sentence at once determined the fate of the unhappy Roseline, and, having no alternative left, she instantly promised to give her hand to the Baron, and sacrifice her own happiness to preserve the life of her father, on which she knew that of her mother depended. Her brothers and sisters too! how could she support the thought of depriving them of a father's protection, and become herself a parricide!—Her own sufferings would be but short;—their's might be continued through a long and weary pilgrimage.
Her father, satisfied with her promise, retired, and left her to recover herself. Then it was she recollected her engagement, and thought of the prisoner. Her resolution faltered, and reason tottered on its throne.
The dreadful fate she was preparing for him,—the distress her loss and inconstancy would inflict on the interesting object, dearer to her than life, or ten thousand worlds, tortured her to distraction, and shook her whole frame: the blood of life receded from her heart for a few moments, and she fell to the earth.
Soon however she recovered to a more perfect sense of her miseries: she wrung her hands;—she would see her Walter;—she would continue to do so till she became the property of him whom she detested, and could never love, and who, she fervently prayed, might be deprived of claiming the rights of a husband, by her being snatched from his embraces by the friendly hand of death, a rival, which, if he did not fear, he could neither injure not subdue; and she should have the delightful, the soul-consoling satisfaction of descending to the grave a spotless victim to her love of Walter. Her spirit would perhaps be permitted to guard him from danger, and watch his footsteps, while he remained on earth, and in heaven she could meet and claim him as her own.
These thoughts, romantic as they appear in the eye of reason and experience, had a wonderful effect upon her mind, and restored it in some degree to its usual tone and composure. She became more resigned to her fate, and to the above-mentioned determinations added another, namely, that, before she became a wife, she would write to her unfortunate lover, and explain the motives that had induced her to break her engagement with him, sufficiently to exculpate her from blame, prevent his execrating and hating the name of Roseline, and if possible still to preserve his esteem. Edwin should be the messenger she would entrust with her letter. These weighty matters settled in the only manner that could make them conformable to the present state of her feelings, she resolved silently and without complaining to yield to a sentence from which, however unjust and arbitrary, she knew there could be appeal, no chance of a reprieve.
Her determination and unconditional consent were soon made known to the Baron by his delighted and exulting friend, who now ventured a few gentle reproaches for the little confidence that had been placed in his word, and the injustice which had been shewn to his zeal. The Baron received this intelligence with unaffected pleasure,—apologized for his lover-like doubts, which had originated from the superior merits of the beloved object, and the disparity of years, which some ladies might have considered as an objection to an union taking place.
Superb dresses were to be ordered for the bride, new carriages built, and the lawyers set to work with all possible expedition; for, as Roseline had stipulated for no certain time being allowed her, to prepare for the awful change which was to take place in the situation, her father, eager to put it beyond the power of any earthly contingency to disappoint his wishes, availed himself of the omission, and determined to hurry matters as much as possible. In fact, the horror of her father's vow had impressed itself so deeply on the mind of Roseline, and introduced such a train of distracting images, as lessened the apprehension of what might happen to herself.
It was now publicly said, that the important event was very soon to take place, and the joyous bustle which succeeded plainly shewed, the report was not without foundation. The surprise and consternation of Edwin are not to be described; he sought and obtained an interview with his sister, who, without absolutely betraying her promise to her father, or explaining how her consent had been extorted, said enough to convince him that compulsion, in some shape or other, had been made use of to force her into measures so entirely repugnant to her feelings, that he feared would involve her in irretrievable wretchedness, and he took his resolutions accordingly.
The enamoured lover, after hearing such unexpected and pleasant intelligence from his friend, requested an audience with the lovely arbitress of his fate. He was accordingly admitted.
Roseline made no attempt to deny having given her consent to become his wife; but the freezing coldness of her manner, and the continued dejection still visible on her artless and expressive countenance, served to increase his doubts; and, so far was it from exciting his compassion, it awakened his pride, confirmed his suspicions, and roused them into action: but, as he had no clue to guide him, and could make no discovery sufficiently conclusive to fix his jealously on any particular object, he was under the necessity of trusting to chance, and his own unremitting endeavours, to unravel the mystery he suspected. Actuated by a sullen kind of resentment, he determined at all events to avail himself of the power thrown into his hands to obtain his desires, resolving, if ever he discovered she loved any man in preference to himself, to sacrifice the detested object of her regard to the just vengeance of an injured husband.
A few nights after, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, the restless Baron, accompanied by his man Pedro, who had undertaken to conduct him about those parts of the castle contrived to defeat the designs of men when they came with any hostile intentions, but which might be favourable to those of an artful lover, began his silent perambulation.
After descending from the battlements, which he had cautiously pace over, looking into every place he thought likely to conceal the rival he expected to find, he returned by a different route, and accidentally went down the winding stairs of the South tower. The door, leading to the prisoner's apartment, he passed in silence, supposing it a lodging-room belonging to the guards, or some of the domestics.—When, however, he came to the bottom of the stairs; turning to look under a kind of arch-way that seemed to communicate with some other apartments, he was startled, and his doubts received farther confirmation from seeing a door, which led to the dungeon, standing open,—a circumstance that served to convince the Baron all was not right, as those places were in general kept well secured, not only to guard against danger, but to prevent their being seen, as it often happened the safety of the castle depended entirely upon the secret contrivances for their internal defence being unknown to all but the governor.
It happened unfortunately, that Albert, who, after he knew the family were in bed, had descended from his own room in order to fetch something which his master wanted from his former habitation, not supposing he was in danger of being followed by any one, had incautiously neglected to shut this door after him. The Baron, not doubting but he was on the eve of making some important discovery, ordered his man to guard the door, to prevent any one escaping while he proceeded in his search.
Albert, luckily hearing some one enter the passage after him, had likewise his suspicions, though of a very different nature. He concluded no one could come to that place with any good design, and trembled lest some discovery had been made respecting the removal of his master, which might expose him to farther persecutions, and bring on a renewal of his former miseries. Whoever it might be, he determined, if possible, to find out their intention.
Edwin had acquainted him with every circumstance he knew in regard to the distressing situation of his sister, and they had agreed not to inform the unfortunate Walter of the impending storm which threatened him with the deprivation of a treasure far dearer to him than his own existence, and which they concluded would at one fatal blow rob him not only of every hope that he had so long and fondly cherished, but even of life itself.
Albert was soon convinced that he person who had followed him was no other than the haughty imperious Baron, the rival of his beloved master, and the destroyer of that fabric on which he had rested his security for happiness. He carried a lighted candle in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, and appeared wondrously curious about something which Albert, not in the humour to put the most favourable construction on his actions, concluded must be mischief.—Thus put upon his guard, he cautiously locked the door which led to his master's former apartments, and, as he was well acquainted with every avenue, each turning and winding in the curious labyrinths of these cheerless regions, he had no fears for his own safety, knowing that it was easy to elude the search of one who was a stranger to them; but, as he did not suppose the Baron (let the business which brought him there be what it might) came entirely unattended, it behoved him to act with the utmost circumspection.
In a little time he observed the Baron had entered the damp unwholesome square that was surrounded by the still more gloomy and unfriendly habituations contrived to render life a worse punishment than the most cruel death. He looked carefully into every on of them, and, coming to that in which stood the coffin before mentioned in this narrative, and seeing the black cloth, by which it had once been covered, now hanging in mouldering and tattered fragments around it, a silent memento of that destroying hand which spares neither the dead nor the living, urged, as we may suppose, by one of those sudden irresistible impulses which we are often actuated to obey against the dictates of sober reason, he stept in, and in an attitude of thoughtful meditation, struck with the horrid scenes which till now his eyes had never encountered, unknowing what he did, he placed one foot on the top of the sad receptacle, on which his looks were bent in serious reflection, when, awful and dreadful to relate, a deep groan issued from the coffin, and a voice exclaimed,—"Forbear, you hurt me!—you will crush my bones to powder!"
The Baron started, and flew back so violently, that he struck his head against the opposite wall.—A moment's reflection, however, served to inspire him with more resolution, and to convince him that this could not be real;—it must be the wild effects of his own distempered imagination;—the dead were never heard to speak, and why a voice from the grave should be sent to him he could not comprehend. He determined therefore not to be alarmed, not driven from his purpose; when, in the next instant, the same voice, as if it knew the thoughts which floated in his mind, addressed him a second time in a rather louder and more authoritative tone from another part of the dungeon, and warned him not to interrupt the peaceful slumbers of the dead. Again called upon, it could not be delusion. Some one,—a lover perhaps, was concealed in that coffin, from which he was to be frightened like a school-boy. In an instant, with one violent blow, he crushed the mouldring abode of its insensible inhabitant to pieces, and a heap of bones were then presented to his sight, which had once belonged to a creature like himself, endowed perhaps with feelings more generous and humane than those which dwelt in the bosom of the man who had thus insulted its humble remains.
"Cause my bones to be decently put in the grave! (said the voice a second time from the coffin,) and from me fear nothing, but tremble for yourself!"—Now rendered desperate by terror, and shocked at the recollection of the scene he had encountered, the Baron eagerly wished to get from a situation so calculated to instill every kind of fear into the mind, if unaccompanied by the still greater horrors which had so wonderfully occurred to increase them; but, well knowing, if he were discovered in such a situation, it must subject him to various suspicions, among which those of a treasonable nature might probably be numbered.—He determined to brave it out, and retire without making any alarm, not doubting but an explanation would equally expose him to censure and ridicule.
As a last effort, however, he mustered courage enough to inquire in a tremulous tone, "What is it I hear?—If a man, let him come forth, and declare his wrongs; I will undertake to defend and right them."
"Can the man (replied his mysterious companion, who now appeared to be close to him) expect being believed when he offers to revenge wrongs of which he never heard complaint? Can he who oppresses others, and is deaf to the sufferings of innocence, think to purchase pardon by the appearance of mercy?—Mend your own heart;—leave this castle:—then the living and the dead will sleep in peace."
The Baron now shook with terror; and called for no farther explanation, but, as quickly as his trembling legs could carry him, began to explore the same way back by which he had gained admittance. Just as he reached the bottom of those stairs which Edwin and his fair companions had so often descended to make their benevolent visits to the prisoner, his ear was again arrested by the same invisible monitor. "Rob not this castle of its treasure:—search to find one more dear, whom you may render happy, who long has suffered imprisonment and wrongs."
Again he stopped. The words vibrated on his ear, and then all was silent. At length he proceeded in his miserable progress, and distinguished the distant sound of footsteps, which he concluded were the centinels on guard, and was soon afterwards revived by hearing the watch proclaim the hour of night. He now eagerly rushed on-wards, and found, thought Pedro had not deserted his post, he was fast locked in the arms of sleep, and snoring as soundly as if his weary limbs had rested on a bed of down. He was awakened by a hearty shake from his master, and ordered to lead the way to his chamber.
Pedro, glad to be released from an employment for which he had no great relish, rejoiced at hearing the welcome mandate, and humbly inquired if he had made any discovery. The answer he received was,—that all was safe and quiet in the castle, and that he believed his fears and suspicions had been hastily formed, and had no foundation.
The Baron, however, was not exactly in that state of serenity and composure of which he endeavoured to assume the appearance.—That voice!—what could it mean?—from whom, and from what quarter could it come?—It might be the echo of some one confined in a cell over his head, or beneath his feet. It could not allude to him, or it might be a contrivance to alarm him from his purpose; yet, if he mentioned it to his friend, he would treat it as the delusion of a distempered fancy.
All he could determine upon doing was to hasten the preparations for his marriage, and, if Roseline should be over-ruled by her father, and give him her hand with reluctance, the fault would bring it punishment upon their own heads; but he still hoped that, when once she became his wife, and saw herself surrounded with splendor, her coy airs would be done away: she would set a proper value on his love and generosity, and as Baroness Frizosbourne be the happiest of her sex.—With such consoling and fallacious hopes he endeavoured to banish his doubts, and compose himself to rest, and, soon forgetting Isabella, and the warning voice of his invisible monitor, he sunk into the arms of sleep.
Not so soon, nor so easily, did the artless, the devoted Roseline lose the remembrance of her heart-felt sorrows. Every hour, every moment, as it fled, brought with it an increase of anguish to her agitated mind. The most distant idea of an union with the Baron was scarcely to be borne, as the certainty of it no longer admitted of a doubt, she shrunk from her own reflections as she would have done from the stroke of death. To be for ever torn from Walter—to see him no more,—no more to converse with and soothe the sorrows of that oppressed and solitary sufferer,—was by far a more insupportable trial than that she was doomed to endure in her own mind and person.
From the world and its unsatisfactory pleasures she could expect no resource:—friends she had non whose power could remove her distresses: her only hope therefore rested on death to release her from persecution, and the reflection most tormenting to the giddy and happy children of prosperity, who consider life as their greatest treasure, and over whose minds a thought of its termination will throw a gloom in the midst of their gayest moments, proved to our heroine her only consolation. She now considered the shortness and uncertainty of life as its greatest blessing, and feared that time, of whom she had often complained for being so rapid and unmarked in its flight, would now torture her by moving in a slow and sluggard pace to the close of her days. She continued, as usual, to make her stolen visits to the prisoner as opportunities presented themselves; but these visits were not longer attended with the pleasure of satisfaction. In her own mind she formed a resolution, even if the consequence should prove fatal to herself, to attempt obtaining the freedom of the prisoner as soon as she had lost her own. This she considered merely as an act of humanity and justice, and would have thought no sacrifice too great, could she have restored that peace of which she knew her loss would deprive him.
Walter, notwithstanding much pains were taken to prevent his making any discovery of what passed in the castle, observed so alarming an alteration in the manners, countenance, and spirits, of Roseline, as led him to puzzle himself with various conjectures respecting the cause; but, as he had been often told by Albert many things occurred in the world to harass and give uneasiness to those who were engaged in its busy scenes, of which he could form no idea, being a stranger to their nature, it was impossible for him to judge of their effect. He therefore determined not to enter on a topic which might wound the feelings of Roseline, and could not fail proportionably to distress himself; and as he would, had it been in his power, have prevented her knowing the slightest pang of sorrow, to her he resolutely remained silent on a subject in which his heart was so much interested, as seldom to allow his thinking on any other. To Albert, indeed, he ventured to make known his tormenting apprehensions; but, as Albert was now guided by the direction of Edwin, he only returned such evasive answers to his questions and complaints, as just served to keep hope from sinking into absolute despondency.
Edwin had reposed an unbounded confidence in De Clavering, De Willows, and Hugh Camelford, in regard to his sister, and without reserve informed them of his own engagements with Madeline, who had received the positive commands of her father to enter on the year of her noviciate. His situation was now become desperate; the crisis had arrived which admitted of no alternative. He must either give up the connexion, or make some effort to secure the prize he had taken such unwearied pains to obtain. His friends promised secresy and assistance in whatever way he should find it convenient to put their sincerity to the test. He had likewise separately introduced them into the apartment of the prisoner, and if, before they saw him, they found themselves disposed to pity and respect him, they were now actuated by the personal regard they could not help feeling in his behalf, which his manners and understanding failed not to inspire in such liberal minds. Hugh Camelford declared himself ready to tie in his defence, and to encounter a host of tevils to procure his freedom.
Preparations were now began, and the day fixed for the wedding. The marriage ceremony was to be performed in the chapel of the nunnery by father Anselm, and, as Roseline made no effort to stop or postpone the proceedings, none but the parties most intimately concerned had an idea that she felt any reluctance to become a bride.
Edeliza and Bertha were half wild with joy: they were to be met at the altar by the abbess, Madeline, and Agnes Clifford; the two latter intended to officiate as bride-maids with the Miss de Morneys.—To describe the various feelings of the parties would fill a volume. Suffice it then to say, that Lady de Morney, far from engaging in the necessary arrangements with pleasure and alacrity, never looked at the dejected countenance of her daughter without feeling a severe reproof from the silent monitor which she, like every other mortal, carried in her bosom. Sir Philip exulted in having managed matter so cleverly as to carry his point (a point to which the necessity of his circumstances reduced him) with less difficulty than he expected, and the Baron, resting satisfied that no woman in her senses could dislike him, or be insensible to the advantages that an union with a man of his rank and character would procure her, determined no longer to encourage either doubts or fears as to her shyness and reluctant compliance. It might, as her father had asserted, proceed from her inexperience, her love for her parents, and her ignorance of the world. In this delusion we must for the present leave him, in order to return to those for whose happiness we confess ourselves more interested.
Roseline, who was obliged to confine her conflicts chiefly to her own bosom, saw the preparations going forward with that settled and silent despair, which, at the moment it evinced her fortitude, would have shewn to those acquainted with the nature of her feelings that every hope was precluded.
Edeliza and Bertha were astonished that their sister could see the rich clothes, and all the paraphernalia of her bridal dress, with such indifference. The former secretly thought she should not be able to shew so much composure if she were as soon to give her hand to her favourite De Willows.
The passion, which this young beauty had cherished in her innocent bosom, had "grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength," and, lately encouraged to hop meeting an equal return from the increasing attention of the beloved object, it remained no longer in her power to conceal her partiality, and De Willows, attached and grateful for being so flatteringly distinguished, only waited till the marriage of her sister had taken place to make known his inclinations to Sir Philip, not less anxious than his lovely enslaver to have his pretensions authorised by the approbation and consent of her father; but he was not without his fears that the ambition, which had of late taken such full possession of the governor's mind, might disapprove his aspiring to unite himself with a descendant of the De Morneys.
The day before the marriage was to take place, Roseline made several attempts to enter the prisoner's apartment without being able to accomplish her purpose. At length she sent to speak with her brother Edwin in her chamber, and begged of him never to forsake the dear, the unhappy Walter, when she should be far distant. She then gave him a letter to deliver to her unfortunate lover as soon as she had left the castle. Of Madeline she proposed taking leave in person. On her brother's affairs she dared not trust herself to converse, confessing that her own distresses rendered her unable to talk, or even think, of his being as wretched as herself.
Edwin in reply said but little; his mind seemed agitated and employed on something he did not appear inclined to communicate. He readily agreed to comply with her request to accompany her for the last time to the apartment of Walter.
They found the solitary sufferer more composed and more cheerful than they had seen him for some time; Albert too appeared lively and active. Roseline was welcomed by her lover in a language far more expressive than words, and as perfectly understood: his eyes rested on her pallid and death-like countenance, with a fond, yet chastened delight, which she thought she had never observed in them before; he took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and looked up to her with that kind of adoration which he would have felt in the presence of an angel. He did not seem to notice the dejection which Roseline every moment expected would have occasioned some tender inquiries. Edwin began to converse on indifferent subjects; but the silent anguish he saw his sister vainly endeavouring to conceal rendered him very unfit for the office he had undertaken. The lovers were never less inclined to talk. The prisoner had taken the hand of Roseline on her first entrance, and retained the willing captive without its making one struggle to regain its freedom, till she was startled by a tear that fell upon it.
Nature, how powerful, how all-subduing, is thy simple but prevailing influence! The tenderest speech could not have said half so much as this precious and expressive tear.—Till this moment out heroine had preserved the appearance of fortitude; but now the mask fell to the ground, and she could no longer keep up the character of heroism she had assumed. By a kind of convulsive pressure of his hand, he perceived she noticed his silent agitations, and it acted with the rapidity of electricity on feelings which he found could no longer be restrained.
"My dear Walter, (said Roseline, giving him a look that penetrated to his heart,) why will you thus distress yourself and me? You know not, you can never know, how dear you are to the ill-fated Roseline de Morney, whom ere long you will perhaps execrate, and wish you had never seen; but forbear, in pity forbear to load me with a curse, that would indeed destroy me." Suddenly recollecting herself, she added,—"Walter will not be so unjust!—He will pity, pardon, and respect, her, who will not be able to forgive herself if she make him wretched."
"Wretched! (exclaimed the agitated lover,)—Can I ever be wretched while you thus kindly condescend to sooth my sorrows,—thus generously confess that I am dear to you, and possessed of your heart?—Can it be in the power of fate to make be otherwise than blest?"
It was too much. Roseline sunk on the bosom of her lover, and at that moment secretly wished to breathe her last sigh, and yield up her spotless life, in those arms which now perhaps for the last time encircled her.
The situation of Roseline caused a general alarm. Walter, frantic with terror, clasped her tenderly to his heart, and called upon her to speak. It was some time before she recovered, and Edwin, who saw the necessity of putting an end to an interview so dangerous and painful, in a voice between jest and earnest, exclaimed, "Indeed, my good friends, I have no relish for seeing such scenes as these performed, particularly when they do so little credit to the performers. These high-wrought feelings may be very fine, but excuse me for saying they are very silly. Recollect, my dear Walter, that our Roseline advances but slowly in her progress towards convalesence; therefore, in her present state of weakness, an interview like this must prove very prejudicial to her recovery."
"Take her away, (cried Walter,) that I may not become a murderer; only before we part, let me hear my pardon pronounced."
He threw himself at the feet of his weeping mistress, who, giving him her hand, said, with a convulsive sob, "There could be no doubt of pardon where no offence had been committed."
Edwin availed himself of this moment as the most favourable to withdraw. He took the reluctant hand of his sister, and with a gentle compulsion drew her away, saying, he would not tax his feelings by staying any longer.
Roseline, again, and almost unknowing what she did, grasped the hand of her lover, and, in a voice too low to be perfectly understood, murmured some tender admonitions, which we doubt not were intelligible to the ear of love, but, to an indifferent person, they might as well have been expressed in Arabic.
Till the door shut Walter from her sight, her eyes were fixed immoveably upon his face, with such a look of anguish, as may be earlier imagined than described; and, when she could see him no longer, she thought the deprivation of life would have been the greatest blessing heaven could bestow on one so hopeless, and, had it not been for her father's dreadful threat of destroying himself, she would have thrown herself at the Baron's feet, and informed him how little she deserved to be his wife who had bestowed her love upon another.
Edwin accompanied his sister to her apartment, but had too much consideration, too much respect for her sorrows, to break in upon moments sad but precious. Happily however for this amiable unfortunate, she was not long permitted to indulge her heart-breaking reflections in solitude.—Her mother and sisters requested her presence to consult her taste, and hear her opinion on some of the preparations going forwards.
Sir Philip, from the time he had extorted her unwilling consent, had carefully avoided another private interview, but had taken every opportunity of caressing her in the presence of her friends, frequently making use of various pretences to get the intended bridegroom out, in order to draw off his attention from Roseline, constantly trembling lest she should appeal to his generosity, or disgust him with her coldness.
Prohibited by her father's cruel vow from applying to any one, she had no alternative but to yield to her destiny, and combat her sorrows, unconsoled and unsupported, except by her distracted brother, who was unfortunately nearly as hopeless as herself. Thus environed with misery, thus entangled in the subtle toils of cruelty and oppression, she was at times led to think she should be less wretched if her fate were determined, concluding, from the torturing sensation of her present feelings, she could not long support them.
The bustle, hurry, and confusion, which pervaded every department of the castle, afforded non of its inhabitants much time for reflection or conversation. Lady de Morney wished to question her daughter, but was afraid of making the attempt.—She found it difficult however to obey the mandate of her husband, which, though unnatural and unreasonable, was absolute; therefore, after some few conflicts with herself, she thought it better not to contend a point of so much consequence.
She saw the internal wretchedness of her daughter with the tenderest regret, and shuddered whenever she remarked her cold and freezing manner as soon as the Baron approached to pay her those attentions due from a lover. She took every opportunity of giving her approbation of her conduct, and by a thousand nameless proofs of tenderness shewed a commiserating sympathy, which did not pass unobserved by Roseline, who, thought she received these marks of affections in silence, determined to avail herself of her mother's tenderness by endeavouring to interest her in favour of the man to whom she had given her heart.
The dreaded morning came, but it came enveloped in a gloom which exactly corresponded with the feelings, spirits, and prospects, of the mourning bride. The sun arose invisible to mortal sight, as if unwilling to witness a deed his brightest rays could not enliven. Dark lowering clouds threatened to touch the turrets of the castle. The rain descended in torrents. It appeared to the disconsolate Roseline that the very heavens wept in pity to her sorrows; the thought was romantic, but it was consoling.
Melancholy, and even madness itself, are said to have their pleasures, and the most wretched sometimes steal comfort from the delusions of imagination. Happy is it that such resources are found to sweeten the bitter draught so many are compelled to drink!—
Roseline submitted to be dressed as the taste of her attendants chose to direct. She was silent and passive, and made no remarks on the elegance of her attire, or the brilliancy of the ornaments with which she was decorated. When summoned to breakfast she attempted no delay, and on her entrance was met by the Baron, who addressed her in a very tender and respectful speech, as he gallantly led her to her seat. She would have assumed a smile had she been able to command her features. She would have said something, but speech was denied. Indeed, non of the company appeared in a humour to converse. Lady de Morney was sad and sick at heart, and Sir Philip himself, in the very moment he saw the gratification of his wishes in so fair a train to be realized, felt neither satisfied nor happy.
A message arrived from father Anselm to say he was ready, and waiting their pleasure in the chapel of the nunnery. The carriages were instantly order to the door. Roseline, more dead than alive, was handed into the first, and followed by her mother and two sisters. The Baron was accompanied by Sir Philip and Edwin in the second. They soon arrived at the chapel, and were met there by the abbess, Madeline, and Agnes de Clifford. Several of the friars and monks also attended. After stopping a few moments to pay and received the proper compliments, the Baron took the trembling hand of his intended bride, and led her to the alter. Father Anselm opened his book, and began the awful ceremony, when the whole party were thrown into the utmost consternation by the door, which led from the subterranean passage to the castle, being suddenly burst open, and Walter, with a drawn sword in his hand, his eyes flashing fire, followed by Albert, instantly rushed up to the altar, and, calling to father Anselm in a tone of frenzy, bade him desist or proceed at his peril.
"The hand of Roseline (he cried) is mine, and mine only! I come to claim my affianced bride, and accursed be the wretch who shall attempt to wrest her from me!"
The Baron sunk down, exclaiming,—"Again that dreadful spectre!—Save me, save me, from it!"
The book dropped from the hands of the venerable priest, and the terrified and astonished Roseline fainted in the arms of her mother, while the countenance of every one assembled was marked with surprise and consternation, but the attitude, the expressive face of Walter, as he stood gazing on the party, caught every eye, and excited universal admiration. His dress was scarlet, richly laced: in his hat he wore a plume of white feathers, fastened by a clasp of diamonds, his tall elegant form and fine turned limbs presenting a subject for the statuary, which few could copy in a stile that would have done justice to the original.
Roseline for some minutes remained in a state of total insensibility, but the Baron soon recovered sufficient recollection to look around him; his eyes were again fixed on the prisoner with a look rather of tenderness than displeasure.
"Tell me, youth, (he cried,) whence comest thou?—to whom dost thou belong? Those features are as familiar to my astonished sight as they were once deeply engraved on my heart. Hadst thou worn any other countenance but that of my once-loved Isabella, my sword ere now should have taught thee to respect those sacred rites thou hast so rudely interrupted, but that is the shield which still protects thee, and by some invisible influence withholds my arm from punishing thy daring intrusion.
"Then hesitate no longer, my lord, to execute your proposed vengeance!—(said Walter, gracefully bending one knee to the ground, and baring his bosom, as if to receive the uplifted sword of the Baron.)—Roseline is mine, and were there ten thousand swords ready to pierce my bosom, I would thus publicly proclaim my right."
"How!—what is the meaning of all this? (said the Baron, looking with indignation at the astonished Sir Philip;)—truth appears to dwell on the tongue of this youthful stranger.—But why have I been thus grossly deceived?—why brought into this sacred place to be made a fool of by a boy and a girl?"
"You must inquire of that same boy, (replied his friend,) of whose very honourable pretensions I never heard till this moment. Why do you hesitate, my lord?—why vent your rage on me, when it would be more justly and properly employed in punishing a madman who has dared to dispute your claim to the hand of my daughter?"
"His countenance still protects him, (said the Baron.)—Order some of your people to take the youth into safe custody till this matter can be investigated."
Father Anselm now inquired if he might go on with the ceremony.
"Not till I have been heard, (cried Walter,) though you tear me piece-meal, shall you proceed!"
Roseline had recovered, but she was still surrounded by her female friends. The voice of Walter operated like a charm. She gently raised her eyes to his face, and begged he would be patient; then, addressing her father, entreated he would not permit any one to hurt him: "I, and I alone, (said the generous maid,) ought to suffer.—My dear Walter, (cried she,) contend no longer for me: think not of risking a life which is too precious to be so madly thrown away. Let every circumstance which led to the painful occurrences of this morning be openly and candidly explained, and let us rest our cause on the justice and humanity of the Baron, father Anselm, and Sir Philip de Morney. I wish not to make my appeal before any other tribunal."
The Baron, who now for the first time discovered Albert among the crowd, (for the contest had brought all the inhabitants of the nunnery into the chapel,) started as if he had seen a spectre. He became more agitated than before, and requested they might return to the castle, than an investigation of this strange business might instantly take place, for his own heart informed him there was some awful mystery to be explained.
Albert approached him: "My lord, (said he,) till this moment I have supposed you cruel, unjust, and unfeeling: my heart reproaches me for my injustice. I begin to see through the cloud which has too long enveloped me. I suspect we have been equally deceived,—alike the dupes of artifice and guilt."
"Art thou not Albert? (exclaimed the Baron,)—the confidential servant of the Lady Blanch, and the favourite of her brother?"
"I am the same unfortunate person, my lord, (replied Albert;) and am not only ready to account for my being here, but to give you all the intelligence in my power respecting some very interesting circumstances with which till this moment I never supposed you unacquainted. My dear sir, (said he, turning to his agitated master,) endeavour to be more composed:" for the countenance of Walter was too faithful an index to his mind to enable him to conceal the conflicting passions which tortured his bosom, and, while his attention was divided in observing the Baron and Roseline, he seemed sinking beneath his own agonizing emotions.
Father Anselm, the lady abbess, and two bride-maids, were requested to return with the party to the castle. A guard was ordered to take charge of Walter and his servant, but he informed them the order might be countermanded; for, being a prisoner, he had requested three gentlemen from the castle to attend him, lest he should subject himself to the suspicion of designing to escape.
De Clavering, De Willows, and Camelford, were now summoned from the passage, where they had impatiently waited to see how this strange and unaccountable business would terminate. This occasioned further surprise to Sir Philip, who restrained his rising displeasure with only desiring them to take charge of the gentleman they had chosen to escort, and to be ready to appear when called upon.
Before Walter left the chapel, he approached the Baron, and presented him his sword. "To you, my lord, (said he,) I am impelled to yield a weapon which never yet was stained with human blood, and at this moment I feel grateful joy that it was not aimed against your life. Most ardently do I desire to prove myself deserving of your friendship, and worthy of your esteem."
The Baron returned his sword, and requested him to wear it. "You have already obtained your wish, (said he, smiling,) and that I must confess against my inclination; but there is something about you speaks a language I find difficult to explain, and cannot comprehend."
Every countenance was brightened up with hope and expectation at this reply of the Baron, except that of Sir Philip de Morney. Even the cold and frigid father Anselm, who, in his long seclusion from the world, had, as it may naturally be supposed, lost many of those generous and tender feelings which a more unrestrained intercourse with his fellow-creatures would have helped to cherish, seemed animated and enlivened. It was agreed that Walter and his friends, accompanied by Edwin, should return the same way as they had entered, and the rest of the party be conveyed in the carriages.—After proper apologies being made to father Anselm, and some of his brethren, for the unnecessary trouble they had so undesignedly occasioned, they returned to the castle,—with what different feelings than those they carried with them to the chapel I must leave my readers to imagine.
No sooner were the party assembled in the drawing-room, than the Baron requested that the young man and his servant might be summoned to give some account of themselves, and explain their motive for their daring and unprecedented proceedings; at the same time, observing in the countenance of Sir Philip de Morney indignation, resentment, and disappointment, he addressed him in the following words.
"I should not, Sir Philip, presume to take the liberty I have now done, did I not, from the nature of our intended connexion, consider myself as authorised to act in this castle as if I were in my own. I am afraid some very dark transactions have been carried on which it is necessary should be investigated, and be brought to light. A mysterious cloud hangs over us, which I am impatient to disperse. Woe be to that man who has assisted to deceive me!"
"If you doubt my honour in what has passed between us, (retorted Sir Philip,) you do me injustice, and I shall, at any time and in any place, be ready to meet you upon whatever terms you please. If my daughter has deceived me,—if she has dared to encourage the hopes of an adventurer,—a maniac,—a traitor,—let her remember that her crime will not be her only punishment, nor will the sacrifice of her father's life be a sufficient atonement for the disgrace and dishonour she has entailed on the name of De Morney."
Roseline burst into tears, in which she was joined by every one of her female companions, who trembled lest some dreadful catastrophe should close the heart-rending scenes of this eventful morning.
"It may be happy for us both, (said the no longer haughty Baron, whose complicated feelings had produced an instantaneous revolution among his contending passions,) that at this moment I do not find myself inclined to engage in any farther hostilities, till I am better satisfied the affront and disappointment were intended for me. If I have been meanly and wilfully deceived, my sword shall revenge me upon those, and those only, who are found guilty, and dearly shall they atone for the injustice they have practised; therefore, till matters are cleared up, I am content to be silent on a subject which, I hesitate not to declare, appears to me inexplicable."
Roseline, who would have given the world to have obtained permission to retire during the awful investigation which was going to take place, dared not make an attempt to withdraw, as she saw by the eyes of her father his rage and indignation were only kept from breaking out by the determined manner and authoritative tone of the Baron, who did not appear in a humour, notwithstanding his language spoke the spirit of peace and candour, to put up with any contradiction. Again he expressed the most restless impatience to be confronted with the parties, who had so unaccountably deprived him of his young bride, by stopping the marriage-ceremony.
In a few moments the painful suspense was ended by the eager and intrepid entrance of Walter, the three companions of his enterprise, and his humble friend: they were desired to be seated. Walter and Albert, however, continued standing, requesting they might be permitted to do so, till they should be acquitted or condemned. The Baron instantly called upon Albert to perform his promise, and, if he were really the honest man he pretended to be, to step forwards, and without fear or prevarication, before the present party, inform them who it was he acknowledged as his master, and prove the justice of those claims which he had made to the hand of his elected bride, and what were his inducements for the preventing of a marriage, sanctioned by the lady's own consent, and the unequivocal approbation of her parents."
"I am happy, my lord, (replied Albert, in a firm, manly, and unembarrassed, tone of voice,) to be thus generously and publicly called upon. Unpractised in either guilt or deceit, and having nothing to fear from my own self-reproaches, I hail this moment, awful as I own it appears, as by far the happiest of my life. But, before we proceed any farther in this important business, I must entreat your lordship to perform an act of tender and atoning justice, for which I trust you will find an approving advocate in your own heart, and require little farther testimony than the receipt carried in a countenance which you have already confessed has stamped its validity upon every tender feeling of your soul.
"My dear, dear sir, (continued he, addressing himself to the trembling Walter,) throw yourself at the feet of the noble Baron; for, as sure as you now live to claim that distinguished honour, you are his son, his only lawful heir!—the darling offspring of the Lady Isabella Fitzosbourne, who, to give you life, yielded up her own."
Walter in an instant was at the feet of the Baron, and in another the interested and astonished party saw them locked in each other's arms, at the same moment the agitated Roseline sunk into those of her mother. In a little time every one became more composed, and the Baron, resolutely struggling to acquire a greater degree of firmness in order to obtain farther information, exclaimed, in a tone of voice that evinced the nature of his feelings, "You are, you must be my son!—Nature, at first sight of you, asserted her just, her powerful claims: yes, you are the precious gift of my sainted Isabella,—the only pledge of a love that was pure and gentle as her own heart and mind! but how, where, by what cruel policy and unfeeling hand have you thus long been concealed from my sight?—how prevented from enjoying the advantages of your birth-right, while I was tortured with the belief that death had robbed my of my son?"
"Of all these matters, my lord, Albert can fully inform you, (said Walter.) He is much better able to explain them than I can possibly be, who till this hour did not know I should ever be folded in a father's arms; yet to me Albert has been a father, a friend, and a guardian. For my sake he has voluntarily buried himself for years in the gloomy and narrow confines of a dungeon; for my sake suffered the punishment of the most atrocious offender without being guilty of a single crime. If you therefore condescend to love and acknowledge me for a son, you will feel for him the affection of a brother. To you, my lord, I am indebted for life,—to this, my second father, I owe its preservation."
"Generous man! (cried the enraptured Baron, who was charmed at hearing the noble sentiments of his son,) come to my arms, and command my power to serve you!"
Albert would have knelt at his feet, but was prevented by a warm embrace from putting his design in execution. Walter was now seated by the side of his happy father, who, observing that his eye wandered in search of something, with anxious tenderness, soon guessed the cause, and, instantly rising from his chair, took his hand, and led him to the weeping Roseline, who, smiling through her tears, instantly proved how warmly she participated in the happiness. Walter, though the acknowledged son of Baron Fitzosbourne, was still a son of nature: he sunk at her feet, and in the unadulterated language of rapture and affection, exclaimed.—"For a moment like this, who is there would not suffer years of anguish! Look down, my gentle friend, my benefactress and protecting angel,—my first, my last, and only love, and let me in your smiles find a confirmation of my bliss! Let them convince me that all I see and hear is real; for I am almost tempted to think it must be the effects of enchantment, of the delusions of a distempered imagination."
Roseline, no longer awed by the presence of her father, no longer able to conceal the joy which revelled in her bosom, gave him her hand, which he instantly conveyed to his lips. Albert, who carefully watched every change in the countenance of his beloved master, trembled for the consequence of such new and high-wrought feelings, lest they should be attended with danger to a mind which had so recently been sunk in a state of the lowest dejection. With the approbation of the party, who saw the necessity of the design, he prevailed upon him to retire for a few minutes, in order to acquire sufficient fortitude to hear his own story recited with composure. This request being seconded by his father and Roseline, he immediately complied, leaving the company so much charmed with the whole of his behaviour, through the interesting scene we have described, and so captivated with his figure, good sense, and sweetness of manners, that surprise was lost in admiration. As soon as the two friends had withdrawn, (for, if ever any one deserved the name of friend, that title belonged to the worthy Albert,) Sir Philip de Morney approached the Baron, and with some little embarrassment congratulated him on the wonderful discovery which had so recently and unexpectedly taken place.—He then entered on his own defence, with the candour and ease of one, who, if he had erred, it proceeded from ignorance.
"That I have undesignedly been made an agent in the diabolical injustice practised against your son, by keeping him confined in this castle, I beg your lordship's pardon, and entreat you would use your influence to procure the forgiveness of him whom I have innocently injured. He was brought to this place under a fictitious name, and, with the false pretence of being at times deranged in his intellects, I was told he was the illegitimate offspring of a person inimical to the plans of government, and easily wrought upon by his associates to enter into any scheme which the enemies of his country might throw in his way; at the same time it was asserted that he was particularly disliked by a great person in high office. All that was required of me was to keep him and his servant in close confinement,—to suffer on one to see or converse with them, and to convey no letters nor messages beyond the walls of the castle. This request came from one with whom I looked upon as a respectable character. He had previously obtained permission of the noble owner of the castle for the use of its dungeons, but who, as well as myself, must have been led into the practice of so glaring a piece of tyranny by the designs and misrepresentations of those whose interest led them to keep your lordship in ignorance of your son's being alive. In justice I ought to inform you, that I was ordered to supply them liberally with every necessary accommodation the nature of their situation would admit, and was not restricted, if I found them quiet and submissive, from allowing them some occasional indulgences. I take shame to myself when I own, that, after I had seen them safely lodged in their dungeon, and had forbidden any one attempting to go near or hold conversation with them, I never visited them more than once, concluding they were two dangerous and worthless people, who were receiving the reward of their base actions, and contenting myself with only making such inquiries as the duties of my situation imposed. Indeed I thought very little about them, and waited with composure for the farther explanation promised by my friend, when we met to settle the accounts for their board, &c. How the youthful prisoner became acquainted with my daughter, or by what means he obtained an introduction to her, I am to this moment totally ignorant."
"If it can be as well accounted for (said father Anselm) who for some time had remained silent with surprise,) as you have accounted for the part you were prevailed upon to act, I think the most rigid judge will find but little to condemn."
"I have no fears (replied the Baron) but their actions will stand quite as clear; the sparkling eyes of my affianced bride are at this moment telling tales of their own beguiling influence, and testifying by their intelligent language that I am right in my conjectures. No wonder, as she conquered the father, she should have wounded, and rendered the son doubly at captive: but here comes the fortunate culprit. Let us hear his defence before we venture to pronounce whether he is entitled to forgiveness and an honourable acquittal, or merits condemnation for daring to fall in love while sentenced to languish in a dungeon."
Roseline, having now shaken off that languor and despondency which for so many days had depressed the generous and active feelings of the gentlest of human minds, impelled by justice and the unbounded affection she had long felt for Walter, exclaimed, "If every virtue merits reward, if every good and engaging quality be entitled to happiness, your son, my lord, will be the happiest of men; for, to the long list of virtues he inherits from his noble ancestors, you will find added all the bounteous gifts which nature could bestow on her most distinguished favourite."
This artless eulogium was not made without a blush, and the rose which blossomed on her cheek gave to her face an expression which, in the eyes of the Baron, exceeded that of the most perfect beauty. Walter, followed by Albert, now returned into the room.
"Come here, young man, (said his father, in a tone of gratified affection,) come and prove yourself worthy of the character I have heard given of you by a very lovely historian. Sit down by me, and endeavour to keep your mind free from agitation, and your spirits composed, while our friend Albert gives us the promised narration, which is to establish your claim to my name as firmly as your merits and conduct have already done to my regard; for, though you played me a sly and mortifying trick before I had the happiness of knowing you, I find in myself little inclination to resent it. Take notice, however, that perhaps I shall not be quite so favourably inclined to execute any deviations in future, should a certain young lady be in the case." This was spoken in a tone that proved the Baron was far from being dissatisfied at having found a rival, so long as he had gained a son.
General congratulations now took place, and the merry, good-humoured Hugh Camelford, after jumping up and cutting a few capers in the true stile of Cambrian hilarity, declared he could dance a fandango with his cranmother; or the toctor, round the topmost pattlements of Pungay Castle, for he never lifed a happier moment since he was porn. Every eye spoke the same language, and De Clavering said, though he dreaded the oyster-shell devilifications of a woman's mind, he had a pretty widow in his eye, whom he should entreat to take care of him for life. Sir Philip, with a smile, whispered Lady de Morney, telling her, he thought after all women catered to best for themselves in the choice of their husbands: for, prejudice out of the question, the Baron's son was certainly the finest young man he had ever seen.—As all the party were impatient to hear the tale Albert had to communicate, he was requested to begin, which he did in the following manner.