The next day every one prepared with high glee for Elwyn's promised treat, and puzzled themselves with various conjectures as to what kind of feast the miser would set before them. Bertha and Hugh Camelford were very busy after something which those who saw them concluded would be productive of mirth or mischief, no two dispositions being more likely to succeed in a cause for which their humorous talents were calculated; while poor Elwyn, in secret but unavailing regret, lamented too late his yielding folly, in having been prevailed on to comply with what he termed a very foolish and unreasonable request, viz. for so many people to dine at his expence: but this he wisely kept to himself, well knowing, if the part understood his sentiments, it would expose him to their whole artillery of wit and ridicule; he therefore made all the preparations for an excellent dinner, but his caution, busy looks, anxiety, and distress, promised a much higher entertainment than his repast could afford.
The company assembled at the proper time, and were seated in due form and order, Lady de Morney at the head, and Elwyn at the bottom of the table; when, having helped most of the party, Camelford requested him to send him a slice of a large raised pie, which made a distinguished figure.
Bertha cried out with well-affected terror, "Don't touch it; I am sure 'tis enchanted; I saw the crust move."
"Child, (cried Lady de Morney,) what do you mean?"
"What I say, madam, for indeed it was lifted up."
"Take care what you are apout, Elwyn, (said Camelford,) or, py Cot, you may cut off the head of a conjurer, who has jumped into the pie in honour of your feast."
"Suppose we let De Clavering dissect him, (said De Willows;) he is undoubtedly the best hand at cutting up his own species."
De Clavering, who suspected some joke, cautiously raised up one side of the crust, when, to the astonishment of the party, out jumped a squirrel. Happy in having regained its liberty, it sprang across the table, and immediately made its way into Edeliza's pocket, where it was accustomed to fun for shelter. She was shocked at the danger from which her favourite had escaped, caressed the little stranger, and rejoiced at seeing it unhurt.
Everyone was surprised and alarmed at the unexpected appearance of poor Pug, while the terror of the master of the ceremonies was somewhat increased, when he saw a dish of blanc mange, which one of the ladies was beginning to help, fall, and a variety of the most beautiful shapes dissolve into water. This produced a general and hearty laugh.
"Fine teceptions these! (said Camelford.)—I suppose we shall find in the rest of the pies life cats and togs, and see little Pertha turned into a pillar of salt." As to Pug, he declared by Cot, Tavy Jones, and the tifel, he never saw a coat run swifter on this belofed Welch mountains, and he would pet fife hundred kineas he would not be peat if put in podily fear.
The dishes were removed, and those originally ordered now brought on to fill their places, which, if not altogether productive of so much mirth, served to gratify a more craving and imporunate sense.—Elwyn however was highly provoked and mortified at the tricks which had been played on him, and swore, if he could discover the perpetrator, he would insist on an apology, or compel him to take a little cold iron.
"That (said De Clavering) would be rendering your hospitality too profuse. It would not only produce matter for conversation, but in all probability furnish me with a job that might puzzle or improve me in the art of surgery; and, as nature had entailed so many diseases on us poor mortals, methinks no reasonable man would wish to increase them."
"But, were it not for the unreasonable, (said De Willows,) you gentlemen of the lancet and gallipot would not find sufficient opportunities to employ your genius, and give such proofs of your chirurgical skill and abilities."
"On my poor poty (said Hugh Camelford) I hope their apilities never will be tried. Petter to eat squirrels, as Elwyn would have tempted us to do, than be cutting up one another for pies and pasties!"
De Huntingfield unfortunately whispered to Roseline that he never saw her so unusually serious, adding, he supposed she was thinking of matrimony, and advised her to begin her attacks against Elwyn, while the generous and hospitable fit was upon him; for, if she permitted it to evaporate, Plutus, in all probability would again render every avenue to his heart inaccessible to the power of love.
This remark brought the roses into her cheeks. She however denied having formed any designs on one whose predominant passion set every other at defiance, and declared herself perfectly guiltless of all such hostile intentions. The hint however was sufficient to put her upon her guard, and she exerted herself to prevent any further observations of the like sort.
Madeline, now satisfied that the heart of Edwin was as much the slave of the tender passion as her own, and beat responsive to her every wish, would have relished the cheerful scene, had she not, in the very moment of enjoyment, recollected it was the last time, for perhaps a long long tiresome period, that she should make one of the happy party.
Edwin, who guessed the nature of her feelings, sympathized too much with her to be more at ease. De Clavering, who observed them both, gave a humorous dissertation on the powers of sympathy, and execrated its effects. The day however passed pleasantly, and the evening concluded with a dance, in which the lively Bertha was permitted to join, and had her favourite Hugh Camelford for a partner.—Edwin withdrew with the ladies at an early hour. The rest of the gentlemen returned with Elwyn to his apartment, much against his inclination, and did not leave him till they had literally fulfilled their agreement of emptying the miser's last bottle; then, consigning him to the care of his servant, with difficulty found their way to their own rooms.
Neither Edwin nor his sister however had forgotten their unfortunate friends. The former had stolen an opportunity of conveying a few nice things to the dungeon, had delivered them to Albert, and spent half an hour with his master, promising to renew his visit in the evening, accompanied by the ladies. This threw a gleam of joy over the countenance of the prisoner, who assured him he would not again distress them by shewing so much reluctance at parting.
Albert was pressed by Edwin to enforce the necessity of his master's endeavouring to recover all that he had lost of his reading, and by that means acquire a proper and useful knowledge of the customs and manners of the world, which would be absolutely essential to the rendering it pleasant, should he ever obtain his freedom, and become an active member of society.
"I shall find but little trouble, sir, (replied this excellent servant,) in doing that which my poor master has himself been so anxious to accomplish ever since he saw you and the sweet ladies, who have made our situation in comparison comfortable. Nature had kindly done much for him, education scarcely any thing. Now I foresee all will be right; he is roused from his lethargy of desponding misery, and laments his own ignorance in language, that shew him truly sensible of it. He has insisted on being better dressed against the evening, and the book has not been five minutes out of his hand since you left him."
"I will give you all the assistance in my power, (said Edwin,) and fortunately at this time my father's absence renders the design less hazardous. I have likewise another plan in my head, which I hope will not only greatly contribute to his comfort, but do much towards the more perfect re-establishment of his health, which I now begin to think is not quite in the hopeless state the alarming situation in which I first saw him led me to imagine."
Edwin next inquired of Albert how his master's wardrobe was furnished."I recollect (said he) you mentioned his desire of changing his dress.I can supply his with any thing he wants."
"In that respect, sir, my master has no occasion to tax your bounty. Toys and fine clothes were never denied, and for a long time they had their influence, and served to amuse him."
"Good God! (said Edwin,) that this mystery could be explained!"
Albert shook his head, and immediately withdrew.
In the evening, Edwin, his sister, and Madeline, visited the prisoner; but, if they were surprised before at the happy alteration a few hours had produced in his looks, how much more so were they now at observing the still greater progress in the improvement both of his health and spirits.—He was drest in the most fashionable stile of the times, with an elegance and neatness that astonished them: every part of his dress was such as was only worn by persons of the highest rank,—his clothes richly trimmed, his stockings silk, and his shoes fastened with gold clasps.
At the approach of Roseline and her friend, his eyes sparkled with delight. In fact, he appeared like one raised from the grave by a miracle,—new fashioned and created. It was visible to all the party that his chief attention was directed to Roseline. He watched her every look, and the language of his artless soul was easily read in every expressive and animated feature.
They were now tolerably cheerful. His fear, reserve, and timidity, began gradually to wear off. He even ventured to address a question to Madeline, and to gaze with tender earnestness on her friend. Edwin, with an arch smile, reminded them it would be time to retire, when Roseline had given proper directions respecting her patient, from whose rapid recovery he foretold she would reap such honours as would firmly establish her reputation, as the first female physician in the world.
"And as the best, the most gentle of her sex," added the prisoner, blushing deeply as he ventured to express his gratitude.—"I owe her more than life,—more than—"
"A truce with your thanks, my good friend, (cried Roseline, now blushing in her turn.) and prove, you value our endeavours to render you more comfortable by taking the utmost care of yourself, and by not permitting you mind to swell on any circumstance likely to agitate and distress you."
He promised to be directed by his friends, and to follow strictly all their injunctions. Again they could not prevail on themselves to leave him, till the night was pretty far advanced. On receiving a promise from Edwin to visit him again the next morning, and one from the ladies to be with him in the evening, he saw them depart without any violent agitation; yet a visible gloom and reluctance pervaded his features, not to be concealed by one who never had formed an idea that it was either necessary or possible to disguise the feelings, or disavow the sentiments of the heart.
Happy state of unspotted unsuspecting integrity! when no pangs of guilt harass and corrode the mind with unceasing anguish! We can scarcely prevail upon ourselves (when we recollect it incorruptible advantages) to think such an enviable portion of internal peace dearly purchased even with the loss of liberty; for, amidst all his sufferings, out hapless prisoner could not recall on action that hung heavy on his mind, or that awakened the scorpion sting of a reproaching conscience. His life might justly be compared to the spotless pages of a book, whose leaves no blot had yet defiled, but which remained properly prepared to receive the fairest and most lasting impressions.
The expected summons for Madeline's return to the nunnery arrived. However reluctant to obey so unwelcome a mandate, she was obliged to comply. The parting between the lovers was attended with many uncomfortable and unpleasant feelings.—Melancholy presentiments were encouraged, which increased the distresses of the moment. She could not leave the prisoner without shedding many tears. She even envied his situation, and when she compared it with her own, it did not appear so hopeless and solitary. He still retained on faithful friend, and had lately met with others, who, if not so long known, were equally attached to him: He would likewise see Edwin every day, while she, immured in the hor d*val of a nunnery, as inimical to her felicity as those by which he was surrounded had till then proved to his, would be denied even the soothing influence of hope;—that ignis fatuus of the mind had deserted its post, and left it open to the sad encroachments of fruitless and unavailing regret.—Most severely did she now condemn herself for every having quitted the holy asylum, in which, if she had not found happiness, she had never felt such conflicts as those she now endured.
Lady de Morney and Roseline accompanied her to the nunnery, and delivered her up to the maternal care of the abbess, and the protection of father Anselm. They both appeared pleased and satisfied with her ready compliance with their commands, and rejoiced to see her look so well. They had suffered great anxiety on her account, and the father, who had visited her frequently during her indisposition, and had cherished bu few hopes of her recovery, now told her he trusted she would not more wish to forsake their holy sanctuary, as he doubted not her illness was a penance inflicted by Providence for leaving it at a season so particularly appropriated to the sacred duties of the church.
Roseline, before she left the nunnery, accompanied Madeline to her cell, the abbess having granted her this indulgence. Here they unobserved gave way to the sad luxury of tears. They wept on each other's bosom, and the sobbing Madeline, deaf to the soothing consolations of her sympathizing friend, requested her to present Edwin with her grateful acknowledgements for his many kind attentions, and which in the moment of parting she was unable to express. She hoped he would not forget her, and begged his sister to assure him, that, if she were compelled to take the veil, she should retain his image in her heart, though her life were dedicated to the service of her God. She likewise cautioned Roseline to beware, and guard against the fly and dangerous intrusions of love, which brought with them innumerable sorrows, and never to encourage hopes, as she had done, which she feared would end in disappointment and misery.
Roseline knew these hints alluded to the prisoner; the blush which tinged her cheek convinced her friend she was perfectly understood. Indeed, she had before ventured to tell her, that, in her attentions to relieve the miseries she commiserated, she might become too tenderly a sharer in them, and, in freeing the captive from his fetters, might herself be enslaved. Roseline thanked her friend, but denied the caution being necessary, and instantly tool her leave, in order to put an end to a conversation which now became unpleasant, and gave her more pain than she chose to acknowledge.
The evening, as may be supposed, passed slowly and heavily at the castle. Roseline felt unfeigned regret at the departure of her friend, and Edwin found in her absence the deprivation of happiness; yet, as it was unavoidable, he determined as much as possible to conceal his distress from the prying eye of suspicion, and to employ every hour he could command, in the service of the unfortunate prisoner, to whom he felt himself irresistibly and unaccountably attached; but Edwin, amidst his family at the castle, was not less internally wretched than poor Madeline, counting her beads in her silent and solitary cell.
At the usual time Roseline and her brother revisited the interesting object of her compassion. He expressed such rapture at seeing them, and made so many acknowledgements for their friendship, that their minds became insensibly harmonized, and their attention engaged.
Edwin now for the first time proposed removing his friend from the dungeon to the haunted chamber, which no one dared to approach, and which we before mentioned as having an entrance from the South tower. Roseline obtained permission of her mother to keep possession of the apartment into which she had accompanied Madeline; therefore they thought his removal could be easily accomplished without any risk of a discovery. It was agreed that Albert should attend the cells in order to take away the provision regularly carried there. All these matters settled, the following evening was appointed for the accomplishment of their purpose, at the same time Edwin cherished the most sanguine hopes that, with the assistance of Albert, and by means of the subterraneous passage, he might sometimes obtain a stolen interview with Madeline.
The next night Edwin, his sister, and Albert, accompanied the prisoner to his destined apartment; but to describe his gratitude and joy, at finding himself in a situation so comfortable and airy, would be impossible. Every thing was new and delightful, and in the morning, when the light (which but dimly enlivened his chamber on his arrival) broke in upon his astonished sight, his raptures were alarming, and his faithful attendant, with the utmost difficulty, prevailed on him to confine them within the bounds of moderation, and cautiously to indulge himself in looking at objects so surprising, but to other people so familiar, they they seldom could spare a moment to contemplate them.
When he viewed the sun, from one of the windows of his room, rising in its utmost splendor, had not Albert prevented him, he had fallen on his knees, and worshipped the brilliant luminary.—He observed the birds with ecstacy, as they lightly skimmed through the boundless regions of the air, and listened with a kind of throbbing agitation as the lark warbled forth her morning oraisons, and, not till he had shed tears, could he reduce his feelings to any degree of composure. He admired the trees; his eyes rested on some of the distant hills, and he told Albert he did not think the world had been so large and fine a place. He next amused himself with looking round his apartment, and at every little interval gave way to the effusions of genuine transport.
Can it be wondered that so helpless a being should feel, on experiencing such a change, more than mere language could express! Liberated from misery by the benevolence of strangers,—a thousand comforts bestowed which he had despaired of ever tasting, his gratitude was as unlimited as his joy, and I am sure all my readers will pardon him for still continuing to think his benefactors more than mortal; yet at times he could recollect, with a sigh of trembling regret, the dangers to which they exposed themselves in order to make him happy.—Their parents, too, might shut them in a dungeon for their disobedience. These reflections fortunately abated the fervour of this high wrought feelings, or in all probability he would have brought on a return of those complaints which had so much interested his young friends in his behalf.—In a few hours he became more composed, and endeavoured to remark every thing around him with serenity. As he was now situated, Edwin and his sister could see him several times a day without inconvenience or danger, and, to guard against any surprise, they had taken care to lock the door at the foot of the stairs, strongly fastened it within-side, and concealed the key, that none of the family might wander that way.
In the evening, a new scene presented itself to the fight of the prisoner, The moon and stars were pointed out to him by Edwin. At first he mistook the moon for another sun, less brilliant, but as beautiful. The stars he called little suns, and attempted to count their number; and, while his eyes were raised in silent rapture to the spangled firmament, he inquired why so much more pains had been taken to decorate the heavens for the night, when mortals slept, than for the day, when all nature was awake to wonder and adore. So delighted was he with the sombre beauties of this all astonishing scene, that it was with the utmost difficulty, after Edwin left him, that Albert could prevail upon him to think of retiring to rest. No sooner however was he convinced that his faithful attendant had lost in the arms of sleep all remembrance of those scenes which kept him waking, than her softly stole to the window, where he remained till the dews of night and the cold blasts of an easterly wind drove him again to his bed.
The few necessary articles which had been allowed him in his former abode were now removed to his present one, and such added as would tend to his comfort and convevience. As his food in the dungeon had been conveyed to him by means of a turning cupboard, his having vacated it could not be known so long as Albert attended at the proper times to receive it; and, Edwin having shewn him another secret way, which led from under the stairs in the South tower to his old habitation, he would be able to go as often as he pleased, without any danger of being discovered.
It was now two months after the prisoner's removal before Sir Philip de Morney was able to fix a time for his return. A letter than arrived, in which he mentioned, that, by the end of another fortnight, he hoped to reach the castle. He informed Lady de Morney that he should bring a friend with him for whom he had the highest regard, and he trusted she would make such necessary preparations for his reception, as would serve not only to prove the sincerity of his attachment, but the high respect and esteem in which he was held by the rest of the family; telling her it was no less a personage than Baron Fitzosbourne, whose friendship had done him much honour, and in whose society he found pleasure.
Lady de Morney, who perfectly understood by her husband's letter, how anxious he was that his friend should be received with the utmost splendour and hospitality, gave such orders as she hoped would please the one and gratify the other.
In the mean while, the prisoner made such rapid improvements, as astonished and delighted his youthful instructors. He was indefatigable in storing his mind with all the knowledge the best authors could impart. With returning health his memory regained its former power, and all the natural and brilliant faculties of his mind recovered their usual strength, and proved he was endowed with more than common capacity and genius. His elegant form, animated features,—the serene, ensnaring gentleness of his manners, and the mild sweetness of his disposition, unfolded themselves by degrees, and endeared him beyond expression to his friends.
As a curious and rare plant, guarded by the active hand, and watched by the careful eye of the gardener, raises or depresses his hopes at first putting forth its tender blossoms, till a kind and congenial season brings it to maturity, and its beauties, suddenly bursting on the sight, prove an ample reward for his fostering care,—so did the heart of Roseline expand and rejoice at every proof the prisoner gave of the goodness of his disposition, and the superior excellence of his understanding.
It was clearly visible to Edwin and to Albert that a mutual passion united the prisoner and Roseline, while every fleeting hour served more and more to endear them to each other. Edwin, already entangled in the toils of hopeless love, and enduring all the pangs of despair and apprehension, trembled for the fate of a sister for whom he felt an uncommon degree of fraternal affection, but to whom he could not prevail on himself to mention a subject so delicate and distressing. The prisoner made no attempt to conceal his ardent love for Roseline:—it was an effort as far beyond his comprehension as his power, and, though, he made no formal declaration, every word, look, and action, betrayed the situation of his heart. Of the world he was totally ignorant; of marriage he had not even thought,—that being a subject on which they had never conversed, and his own situation, desperate and hopeless as it was, now seldom engaged his attention. Roseline, and Roseline alone, engrossed his every idea: while he saw her smile, and heard the sound of her voice, he was contented and happy, and, when she was absent, the wish, of rendering himself more worthy and better able to converse with her, stimulated him to pay unremitting attention to his own improvement, and the instructions he received; but, had he been assured he should see her no more, he would have sunk into the same apathy and indifference for life and its enjoyments from which her kindness had drawn him.
After Madeline had left the castle, and before the return of Sir Philip, Edwin, at the utmost risk of discovery, which would have involved him and the object of his regard in danger and difficulties, prevailed upon her to grant him several interviews in the chapel of the nunnery. One night, Albert, having agreed to accompany him through the subterranean passage, the trembling nun met them at their entrance, and seated near the tomb which concealed the door, listened to the vows of her lover.—Equally reluctant to part, they sat longer than usual, and heard footsteps in the chapel. Madelin rightly concluded it was one of the friars come to say mass for the soul of a nun lately dead. When the ceremony was ended he departed, and, as the door closed after him, the resolution of Madeline revived. She knew if they had been discovered, even the life of Edwin would not be secure, and that she should instantly be compelled to take those vows from which there was no release but death.
Her own imprudence, and the danger to which her lover was exposed, struck so forcibly upon her mind, that after he left her she could scarcely acquire courage to return to the nunnery; and, as she passed the aweful and silent receptacles of the dead, she was almost led to think she heard a friendly voice warn her never again to be guilty of so sacrilegious a crime. She glided quickly by the grave of the nun who had been interred but a few days, and even imagined she could perceive the earth move.—She had no sooner reached the cell, (into which she hurried without daring to look to the right or to the left, lest she should see the frowning spirit of some departed sister,) than she fell on her knees, and earnestly intreated forgiveness of the holy virgin. The next morning, far from finding her terrors abate, they fained still greater ascendancy over her mind, by hearing that father Anselm had been making inquiries about some footsteps he had observed in the chapel when he went to early prayers. Recollecting the unguarded warmth of Edwin's temper, and the eager tenderness with which in an hour of yielding softness he prevailed upon her to indulge him with these stolen interviews, she was fearful of acquainting him that it was her determination to grant no more.—She wrote to her friend Roseline, and entreated her to persuade her brother not to make any attempts in future to see her in the chapel; but to them she left the power of procuring as many opportunities as possible of meeting without danger. She sincerely lamented being obliged to deprive herself of the company of a lover to whom she was tenderly attached, and for whose sake she was become an unwilling votary in the service of her God.
This letter was instantly communicated to Edwin by his sister. He could not at first be easily reconciled to a measure so repugnant to his feelings; but Roseline adding her intreaties to those of Madeline, and pointing out the necessity of it, he became more willing to observe the greatest caution, and to practise the most rigid present self-denial, in order to secure his future happiness. She reminded him this it was now four months before Madeline would enter on her year of probation, previous to which something might happen favourable to their wishes; observing, that their mother could at any time prevail upon the abbess to grant Madeline leave for visiting the castle. These arguments had so much effect, that Edwin promised his sister to make no farther clandestine attempts to see her friend, till all other means were rendered impracticable.
It happened about this time that Roseline was prevented, by a slight indisposition, from visiting the prisoner for four or five days. At first his alarm and distress were unspeakable. It was scarcely possible to convince him that it was owing to ill health he did not see her, and his restless impatience would have now betrayed the secret of his heart, had it not before been discovered. He neither ate not slept; all his spirits forsook him: the sun was no longer admired, the moon and stars were deprived of their lustre. He wished to shun the light, and, had all nature been lost in universal chaos, it had been a matter of indifference now he saw not Roseline: he wondered what he could have found to admire in any thing with which she was not connected.
Albert observed his master was very busy with his pen, and, in removing a portfolio from his writing table, papers containing the following sonnets dropped on the floor. He read and copied them, and gave them to Edwin the next time he saw him.
Though they were written by one who had never drank at the Parnassian fount, love had given such pathos to the language of taste and nature, that he was charmed, and could not prevail on himself to with-hold such a treasure from his sister, to whom in justice they belonged, and who like another Iphigenia had in a manner raised a phoenix from the same inanimate materials of which a Cymon had been formed.
Roseline, as she read the interesting proofs of genius and affection, which she wanted not to convince her she was sincerely beloved, shrunk from the agitated and trembling feeling of her own heart, which too well informed her he had nothing to fear from not meeting an equal return of regard. Absence had been as painful to her as it had proved to the prisoner, whom love had taught a lesson equally charming and delightful.
- - - - - - -
- - - - - - -
Ah! what to me are birds or flow'rs,The sun's most radiant light!I pine away the ling'ring hours,And sigh for endless night.Come, Roseline, sweet maid, on roses borne,Sweet as thyself,—unguarded by a thorn!
- - - - - -
Fair Roseline, why didst thou chase the gloomWhich late envelop'd my benighted mind!Why didst thou snatch me from a living tombTo sigh my hopeless sorrows to the wind!Why was I caught in love's bewitching snare,—Believ'd thee gentle, tender, kind, and fair!
Now thou art absent, my desponding soulHas lost its wonted pow'rs in sad despair;Reason no more mu passion can controul;Joy flies with thee, and nought remains but care.The blessings thou hast giv'n no more have charmsAnd my rack'd mind is torn with wild alarms.
With soothing words thou didst my cares beguile,Taught me the page of learning to explore,Banish'd despondence with a gentle smile,—Then left me solitary, sad, and poor.Would'st thou return, and to my pray'r incline,Methinks a dungeon's gloom would be divine!
If I no more thy beauties must behold,Death soon will free me from this painful smart;If a proud rival win thee by his gold,Soon will despair and anguish break my heart.But, though all cares, all sorrows should be mine,Heaven shower its brightest gifts on Roseline!
- - - - - -
No more for liberty I pine,No more for freedom crave;My heart, dear Roseline, is thine,—Thy fond, thy faithful slave.
First taught by thee I own'd love's pow'r,And yielded to my chain;Sigh through each sad and cheerless hour,Yet bless the pleasing pain.
Sweet Roseline, my heart is thine,It beats alone for thee;In pity to my vows incline,Or set the captive free.
Like a poor bird, in his lone cage,I pine and flutter round,Sullen and sad, in fruitless rage,Yet still in fetters bound.
Thus stood matters at the castle, when Sir Philip de Morney returned, accompanied by his friend, Baron Fitzosbourne, who was highly gratified by the cordial and respectful reception he met with. Every one vying with each other in their endeavours to amuse him, he assumed the most conciliating manners, appeared pleased and good humoured, paid the most flattering attention to the young ladies, and bestowed the warmest encomiums on their beauty and accomplishments; at the same time admiring, or pretending to admire, the maturer graces of the mother, who had given to the world a race of women fairer than the first daughters of creation, and, to render the gift complete, had stored their minds with a fund of knowledge that could put philosophy to the blush at its own ignorance.
Sir Philip assiduously courted the Baron, seemed to watch his looks, and to make it his whole study to oblige him,—thought as he thought, and, whatever he recommended, was sure to approve. Lady de Morney, seeing her husband so anxious to please, followed his example, not doubting but he had good and sufficient reasons for what he did. She requested her children strictly to observe the same conduct, with which request they all at first readily complied, and exerted themselves to entertain their noble guest. Edwin was honoured with particular marks of his favour and approbation: he promised his best interest to obtain him promotion in the army, when he found that was the profession for which he was designed.
The Baron was nearly as old as his friend Sir Philip. In fact, they had received the first rudiments of their education at the same school, and under the same makers; and, though their pursuits were alike, they had been thrown into a very different situations, but ever retained a pleased remembrance of their boyish friendship, and took every opportunity of keeping it alive, and serving each other. The Baron, though large and robust, was neither clumsy not forbidding in his appearance. His eyes were penetrating; he looked the warrior, and seemed formed to command and be obeyed. He was tall, and had an air of grandeur about him that bespoke the man of fashion: his voice was not unpleasing; but he was rigid and austere with his servants and dependants; and, though upon the whole they found him a generous master, as he had nothing conciliating in his manner to them, they took every opportunity of abusing him; for, though they durst not venture to speak before him, they made themselves amends when they joined their companions in the kitchen, by giving such traits of his character, as not only shocked them, but made them feel with redoubled gratitude the happy difference of their own situation.
Roseline, while she was compelled to treat her father's visitor with attention and respect, felt an invincible disgust whenever he addressed her, and attempted to give specimens of his gallantry, which was often the case; but, if he took hold of her hand, she shrunk from his touch as she would from that of a snake, and trembled, she knew not why, if she saw him looking earnestly at her face.
Edeliza laughed at and detested him. She slily compare him with De Willows, and wondered how nature could have contrived to form two creatures so different from each other. Bertha wished to pull off his ugly great wig, and to have it stuck upon one of the towers, observing, that, if his frightful face were seen from another, no enemy would ever come near them. How were they all struck with sorrow when they found he was to spend the whole summer at the castle. Roseline, with more earnestness than usual, questioned her mother as to the truth of this report, but received only an evasive answer, that the length of the Baron's stay depended on a circumstance not yet determined.
"I sincerely hope, my dear madam, whatever it may be, that it will at least prove unfavourable to his continuance here. My father may, and I dare say has, just reasons for esteeming him, though no one but himself can discover them. Every one else dislikes him, and I shall most truly rejoice when he takes himself away."
"My dear girl, (said Lady de Morney,) consider the Baron's rank, and the dignity of his character."
"I do consider them (she replied) as the greatest misfortunes that could happen to any one, unless accompanied with good humour and humility; but I think it particularly hard that other must suffer so many mortifications because the Baron is a great man."
Again she was requested by her mother, who could scarcely forbear smiling at the seriousness of her manner, to recollect that men of his consequence could not bring themselves to act as if they were upon a level with their inferiors.
"The more is the pity, (said Roseline;) therefore, my good mother, it would be unnecessary for me to consider any thing about the Baron's importance, since he thinks so much and so highly of it himself: but I do not see, for my part, why rank and fortune should tempt their possessors to assume so much on merely accidental advantages; or why people, distinguished as their favourites, should have a greater right to think and act as they please than those less fortunate. We were much happier and more cheerful before he came among us, and my father more indulgent."
"Your father (said Lady de Morney, with the utmost earnestness) is, I have no doubt, perfectly satisfied that he is acting right, and therefore you, Roseline, must be blameable in the presuming to call his conduct in question. I insist, as you value his and my favour, that you never again address me on this subject; and let me advise you, if you with to be happy, to shew no disgust to the Baron, but receive his attentions with politeness and good humour."
On saying this, she withdrew, and left Roseline, struck dumb with surprise, to form what conclusions she pleased. She knew not what to think from this unusually strange and unpleasant conversation, and could not comprehend either her father's or mother's reasons for being so much attached to any one, whatever might be his ranks, who was so little formed to excite any feelings but those of disgust in the minds of those unfortunate people who whom he condescended to associate. She saw and lamented that, since the Baron's arrival, neither De Clavering, De Willows, nor Hugh Camelford, came without a formal invitation from her father, while the reserve which prevailed in their parties banished all that enlivening conversation that once rendered them so pleasant. Her sisters too, the dear Edeliza, and the sweet Bertha, were kept under so much restraint before this great personage, they seemed almost afraid to speak.
Roseline, to shake off for a time these uncomfortable reflections, stole into the prisoner's room, in which she seldom failed to find her brother: there she lost all remembrance of the Baron; and, in conversing with friends so dear to her heart, progressively recovered that native cheerfulness which was one of the most engaging features of her character.—The sonnets, which her brother had so recently given her, not only served to raise her spirits, but had made an indelible impression on her mind. She smiled with something more than even her usual complacency on this love-taught poet. Of his tenderness and sincerity she could cherish no doubt. His honour and worth it was equally impossible to suspect. No one knew them better,—no one estimated them so highly as herself. To suppose he could be less amiable, less deserving of her attachment, would have appeared to her a crime of the most enormous magnitude. Thus did the fond effusions of love throw a veil over the eyes of their artless votary, in order to give a fair colouring, and to reconcile her to a conduct which, in another, her prudence would have taught her to condemn; but thus it is with too many erring mortals: when once they become the hood-winked slaves of any predominant passion, they are not only regardless of the world's opinion, but insensible to the secret admonitions of that silent monitor, which they carry in their bosom. Roseline as first acted merely from the generous impulse of pity and universal benevolence; but, in so doing, she admitted a guest to dispute with them a place in her breast, which neither time, reason, nor prudence, could banish thence.
Our artless heroine was unfortunately the darling child of sensibility, and her mind so susceptible of the miseries and misfortunes of others, that, from the moment she discovered them, they became her own. What then must be the poignancy of her feelings, when she reflected on the dependent, helpless, and unprovided state of a lover, dearer to her than life!—who dared not disclose even his name,—whose blameless conduct proved to her partial judgement that he suffered unjustly, and whose virtues could alone reconcile her to herself for having risked so much on his account, and entrusted her heart to the keeping of one whose situation precluded hope,—who had declared he belonged to no one,—a prisoner, a stranger, without fortune or friends: yet, think as she would, these cruel circumstances, after the strictest investigation, acted as a talisman in favour of her lover.
The life, which she fancied, under Providence, she had been the humble means of preserving, she concluded it was now her duty to render happy; therefore, to deprive it of its value, by affecting an indifference she did not feel, was as far from her power as her inclination; yet there were moments when she recollected, with the severest anguish, how much her brother, as well as herself, was acting in opposition to the designs and will of her parent. To deceive such parents was a thought which, in her most impassioned moments, she could not dwell upon, but love and sensibility had woven their webs so close around her heart, that she struggled in vain to disentangle herself from the bewitching snare.
Sensibility I have long thought, nine times out of ten, proves a source of misery to the generous and benevolent, and as often is merely the boast of the ignorant, who pretend to be overstocked with the milk of human kindness, and whose feelings are equally excited by the death of a husband or a lap-dog. I am satisfied there is no blessing more earnestly to be wished for than a calm and composed resignation to the events of this life, and all its complicated concerns.—It appears rather an Irishism, that to be happy we must become indifferent,—but so it is.
Real sensibility is of all burthens the heaviest to bear. Long experience and careful observation have convinced me too painfully of this truth. A thousand and a thousand times I have shed torrents of tears, and felt the most tormenting anxiety for those who would have seen me with the most stoical apathy begging through the street for bread. The pleasures attending high-raised sensibility are so much over-balanced by the painful effects they produce, that I protest I had rather be an oak, or a cabbage, than alive to such every-varying and corrosive feelings, which act upon the human mind as slow poison would upon the body.
When Roseline was going to bed, the servant who attended her, and who, from having lived some years in the family, was indulged in the habit of conversing familiarly with the young ladies, determined to get rid of a kind of confidential secret, which had been entrusted to her by one of her fellow-servants.
"Laws, Miss Roseline, (said she,) what think you that frightful old Baron comed here for?—As I live I should not have dreamed of any thing so ludicurst!"—
"Came for? (replied Roseline,)—why he came to see my father to be sure;—what else could be his inducement for visiting this stupid place?"
"Ha, ha! I thought I should poze you, miss, (cried Audrey, drawing herself up, and giggling at her own consequence,)—why, as sure as you be borned and christened, he comed here to pick up a wife, if he can meet with one to please his own superannuated meagrims; and his man, Pedro, thinks as how a person I could name would suit him to a tee, but I thinks otherwise.—Such an old frumpish piece of crazy furniture, says I, will not suit any of the ladies that belongs to the noble genitors of Bungay Castle and its henvirons. 'You my be mistaken, dame, said the saucy fellow;—if they suit my master, my master may suit them sure, for he is as rich,—as rich as Crasus."
"For heaven's sake, (said Roseline,) what nonsense have you picked up? You must not presume, Audrey, to speak of the Baron in so disrespectful a manner. If my father and mother heard you, I am not sure that you would be permitted to stay another night in the castle."
"It would be a good story, indeed, (resumed the talkative Abigail,) to turn away a servant for such an offence! As I have a soul, which, by the goodness of father Anselm, I hope to get saved, my heart bleeds for you, miss, and I could claw out his ugly, staring eyes for to go for to think that you, who be so sweet tempered, and kind, and affabel, to your unfeerors, should have to nurse his crazy old carcase.—'Tis vexing to—"
Roseline had started up in her bed as soon as she found herself so strangely introduced with the Baron, and seeing that Audrey had taken up the candle in order to leave the room, gently called her back, and begged some explanation of what she had heard, which she declared herself unable to comprehend.
"Mayhap you are;—so much the better, (said Audrey.)—Less said is soonest mended, as I have gone to the end of my line;—I may be turned away if I assume to speak of the beautiful old Baron;—things will all come out in time;—I can be spectful to my betters:—they that link an old husband let them have him;—'tis no bread and butter of mine.—Good night, miss;—the Baron is a fine old Gracian, and will make his lady marvelly happy."
Saying this, she left the room, and Roseline was too much displeased to call her back a second time, but determined to question her still farther the first opportunity. "The Baron came to the castle for a wife!"—It was too ridiculous to be believed; but, if he did, he could not possibly think of uniting himself with her! Servants were ever prying into the secrets of their betters, or forming such stories as only very ignorant people could think of inventing.
She now went to sleep, forgot the Baron, and dreamed of the prisoner, whom her fancy represented as being released from confinement, and eager, with the consent of Sir Philip, to lead her in triumph to the altar of Hymen. To the delusive excursions of the soul we will for the present consign her; but, before we take leave of the inhabitants of the castle for the night, we will just take a peep into the kitchen, where, around a blazing fire, spread on a hearth four yards wide, were seated several of the domestics, earnestly engaged in talking over the affairs of the family, each of them drawing the character of their master or mistress, as the humour of the moment dictated, and giving their opinions of actions, the motives of which they knew so little, that they were just as able without a fair and candid examination.
Sir Philip, it was said, was become quite proud and penurious,—the young ladies troublesome,—and Lady De Morney cross, whimsical, and suspicious. Suddenly the door burst open, and a young man, who had been for some time an assistant in the stables, tumbled into the kitchen, and, with terror depicted on his countenance, exclaimed, "I saw it,—I saw it!==I saw the light with my own eyes!—The ghost followed me up to the door, and then vanished in a flash of fire!—Shut the door, or it may get in!"
This in a moment alarmed the whole set; they all crowded round the terrified man, and with one voice eagerly inquired what ghost, what lights he meant? and when and where he had seen them? After drinking a copious draught of ale, he became able to satisfy the curiosity he had excited, and told them, as he was coming from the stables, just as he passed the gate of the inner ballium, and was within forty yards of the South tower, he saw a light as plain as ever he had seen one in his life, through one of the grated windows, and, after it had disappeared a few seconds, it appeared again at a much lower window, flashed upon the wall, and smelt like sulphur. At the moment it vanished the second time, he saw something all in white, which he thought glided past him, but, on looking behind him, it was there also, and it had actually followed him till he fell into the kitchen.
"Then, as sure as we are alive,(said one of the grooms,) Thomas has seen the ghost of the lady who died for love of the young officer that was put to death in the dungeons. I have heard my grandfather say a thousand times he must have died innocent, for he was a bold as a lion till his last gasp."
"Well, (said one of the women-servants,) I shall be afraid to stir out after dark, if these confounded ghosts are again found taking their nightly rambles, and prying into every thing that is going forwards."
"I always knew (said another) this castle was disturbed ever since the great clock struck twelve twice in one night; for what on earth could touch it at that time, if it had not been a spirit?"
"Ah! (said a third,) no doubt there have been sad doings in the castle."
"Not since we came to it, (replied an old grey-headed footman.) My master has practised no deeds of darkness that would bring the dead from their graves. As to what was done before our time, that can be no business of ours, and I don't see how any ghost can have a right to frighten and interrupt, either by day or night, those who were never acquainted with it."
"Christ Jesus preserve us! (cried on of the maids,) I verily thinks I saw something glide past that door! Surely father Anselm should be sent for to give them absolution:—There! did you not hear that rustling?"
"I see and hear nothing, (said the before mentioned old servant,) but what I wish neither to see not hear. You are all a parcel of superstitious ignorant fools, and, if my master should once find out what cowards you all are, he would soon compel you to give place to a bolder set. Come, come, let us go to bed, and leave the ghosts to do the same."
The old man led the way with a candle in his hand; the rest followed, clinging to each other like a flight of bees, not one of them daring to be left behind; and the groom, who had really seen a light from the tower inhabited by the prisoner, was to convinced he had seen a ghost, that neither father Anselm, nor all the fathers in Christendom, could have persuaded him to think the contrary; and so much had it alarmed him, that his terrified imagination had mistake his own shadow for the ghost following close at his heels, and it was with some difficulty he could be prevailed upon by his fellow-servants to go to bed, lest he should see it again.
The next morning, when Audrey went to call her young lady, Roseline requested she would forgive her for having spoken so angrily the preceding evening, and with the most winning softness begged to be informed what she meant by coupling her name with that of the Baron.
Audrey, who had never before seen Roseline so much out of humour, and had neither forgotten nor forgiven the affront of being prevented from disclosing a secret which she had for several days found very troublesome to keep, replied, "I couples no one; matches are made in heaven, or in the church, or at wakes; but I think, for my part, some are made in a much worser place, and so she will think too who is tacked in hollybands with the old Baron." "But who do you think, my good Audrey, will ever be so unfortunate?" "Why will you ax me miss? I must not speak my senterments: we poor servants never knows nothing; but this I do know for certain, if ever I marries, it shall be to a young man, a pretty-looking man,—good humoured ones I loves,—something like Mr. Camelfor;—not to an old crab, sowrer than vinegar, who would not suffer me to see with my own dear eyes, nor believe with my own natural senses,—a crotched paced toad, who would shut me up for life; mayhap, if I liked a better or a younger man than himself,—an accident I think that might happen."
"But how should the Baron find out what you thought?"
"By going to a negromancer. Such old cattle are to the full as cunning as their black master, and might strike one dumb."
"That, to be sure, (replied Roseline,) would be a heavy misfortune to those who were fond of hearing the sound of their own voice in preference to that of any other person."
"For my part, (said Audrey,) voice or no voice, I verily thinks something mendusly bad after all will happen to this crazy castle, for Thomas last night saw lights in the South tower, and the ghost of a young woman followed him in such a hurry, that, if he had not ran as fast as a hound, it would have stamped upon his heels. It went away like a sky-rocket, and the smell of sulphur almostsifficatedthe poor fellow, who will certainly have aparleticstroke."
Lady de Morney's bell now ringing, Audrey left the room, without having said half so much as she intended to do about the ghost, or unburthening her mind of a secret she heartily wished to reveal.
When the family met at breakfast, the Baron appeared unusually affable, and Sir Philip in high spirits. A walk was proposed to take a view of the town, nunnery, and environs of the cattle. Roseline and her sisters were requested to be of the party, and they were very soon joined by De Clavering, De Willows, and Hugh Camelford. This little promenade was so pleasant, that it seemed to harmonize every mind, and to produce a redoubled and grateful relish for the early beauties of the infant spring.
"Already now the snow-drop dar'd appear,The first pale blossom of th'unripened year,As Flora's breath, by some transforming pow'r,Had chang'd an icicle into a flow'r.Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,And Winter lingers in its icy veins."
The Baron, who had politely offered the assistance of his arm to Roseline, (which her father bade her accept,) whispered some very fine things in her ear in praise of her shape, beauty, and understanding,—told her it was a reproach on the taste and judgment of his sex that so charming a female had not put on hymeneal fetters;—it was a positive proof of the blindness of the god of love.
"Surely you forget, my lord, (replied the blushing Roseline,) that I have scarcely left off my leading strings, and am but just liberated from the confinement of the school."
Age, he told her, ought not to be reckoned by the number of years, but by accomplishments and good qualities.
"That kind of calculation (said De Clavering) would make your age,Miss de Morney, more upon a par with the Baron's."
"More upon a par, you mean, (added De Willows,) with our first parent Adam."
"What Atam? (cried Hugh Camelford, skipping to the side of Roseline, and eagerly handing her over a little run of water they were obliged to cross,)—what were you saying about our crate crandfather Atam? I have often wished to see the old poy, and trink a pottle of pure water with him from the pond in the carten of Eden."
"Why so, sir?" said the stately and mortified Baron, who felt and seemed to shrink from the contrast between the active and lively gallantry of the giddy Cambrian and the slow and cautious efforts of his own.
"Why?—why? pecause he must be a prave fellow to venture matrimony with the first woman he saw."
"How the devil should he do otherwise than take the first, when there was no other to choose!" said De Clavering.
"The tevil however was even with him after all, (replied the unthinking Camelford;)—the old poy had petter have peen quiet."
"I do not see that, (said De Willows;) and, as the mischief was productive of some good, surely we have no right to criticise with severity that conduct which was forgiven by Being so much more perfect than the creature he had created."
"That is as much as to say, (rejoined Camelford,) that, when we choose to play the fool, cofet our neighbor's wife or taughter, we have only to plame our own imperfect nature, repent, and be forcifen."
"That would be to trust our hopes of forgiveness upon a very sandy foundation indeed, (said Sir Philip,) as determined guilt, or a continuance in error, can have but little chance of immortal happiness."
"And for our mortal share of that same commodity, (replied the lively Hugh,) we must not trust to matrimony, I fear, as I never heard married people found their happiness puilt upon a rock."
This speech produced a general laugh, but Sir Philip, who was by no means pleased with the subject, said with a smile to the Baron, "These young men think they know more than their forefathers."
"By which means, (replied he,) they will most assuredly entail upon themselves the mortification of knowing less."
The conversation, during the rest of the walk, was confined to such objects as occasionally presented themselves to observation. The inhabitants of the town came to their doors to catch a look at the party from the castle. To as many as were known by the governor he spoke familiarly, as did the other gentlemen, and they concluded the Baron must be some very great man, perhaps the king himself in disguise, because he did not once condescend to address them.
Roseline chatted with some young girls who came out to make their best curtesies, while the Baron thought all these attentions paid to such plebeian souls wonderfully troublesome. At dinner he scarcely spoke five words, and De Willows was do disgusted with his forbidding haughtiness, that the next day he presented to De Clavering the following satire on pride, saying it was a tribute justly due to the Baron for his supreme excellency in the display of that detestable feature in his character.
Hell's first born exhalation sure is pride!Who, with its sister, envy, would divideThe various blessings to poor mortals given.By the kind bounty of indulgent heaven.What at the last have kings to make them proud!A gilded coffin and a satin shroud.The lordly worm on these will quickly prey;For worms, like kings, in turn will have their day.What then is man who boasts his form and make?A reptile's meal,—a worm's high-flavour'd steak,The epicure, who caters like a slave,Is but a pamper'd morsel for the grave.
Envy's a canker of such subtle power,It steals all pleasure from the gayest hour.It is the deadly nightshade of the mind;With secret poison all its arts refin'd;And, when attended by it vile relation,Would spread a plague destructive to a nation.Then send these hags back to their native hell,With fiends and evil spirits formed to dwell.
No more on worth let man look down with scorn,And frown on those not quite so highly born;Nor, as the coaches rattle from his door,Boast, like proud Haman, of not being poor!Earth's doom'd to earth, all folly there must end,—Then read, and own the satirist a friend.
Madeline had been invited, and obtained permission of the abbess to spend the following day at the castle. This gave additional vivacity to the lively spirits of Edwin, who, with his sister, spent as much time with the prisoner as they could steal, without exciting curiosity of suspicion. Roseline gave them with some humour the ghost-story, as imparted to her by Audrey, and cautioned Albert against having any lights seen from the windows, lest it should be productive of such inquiries as might lead to a discovery of the rooms being inhabited; but, notwithstanding all her attempts to fly from herself, and conceal from the observing eye of love her own internal conflicts, she was almost tempted to throw aside the mask, and at once confess all her apprehensions.
How were these apprehensions heightened, when, in the afternoon, her father told her in a whisper he wished to see her in his study before the family assembled at breakfast, having some intelligence of the most agreeable nature to impart, which he hoped and believed would make her one of the happiest, as it could not fail to render her one of the most envied of her sex.
Roseline trembled, turned pale, and to the earliest opportunity of withdrawing, not daring to trust Edwin with her fears, or risk feeing the prisoner for some hours, lest her agitation should betray suspicions of she knew not what, but in which her terrified imagination confirmed all the hints her maid had given her.—Marry the Baron!—it was a thought so unnatural, so repugnant to every wish, every feeling of her heart,—so inimical to the ideas she had formed of happiness, that it was not to be endured.—She wept, wrung her hands, recollected herself, and again sunk into despondency; but at all events resolved to acquire resolution to go through the interview with her father, and give him such answers as should convince him an union with his friend (if such was the painful subject he had to communicate) would make her the veriest wretch on earth. Her heart was no longer in her own possession, but that she must not dare to avow; all therefore that she could determine was, to refuse the Baron, and to love the prisoner, and him only, to the end of her life.
These important points settled for the present, gave to her perturbed spirits momentary relief, and enabled her to join the family without creating any suspicion that they were unusually depressed; when, however, she followed her brother into the prisoner's room, it was with the utmost difficulty she maintained any command over her feelings; but, unwilling to alarm of distress her unfortunate lover, till necessity compelled her to acquaint him with her sorrows, the only difference her painful struggles produced was an addition of gentle tenderness to her manner; and, though she had often thought her affection could admit of no increase, yet, at this moment, he was, if possible, still move beloved, still more endeared by the ten thousand uncommon ties which had so wonderfully tended to unite hearts that appeared to be under the directing will of Providence. The next morning, previously to seeing her father, Roseline once more ventured to question Audrey, and so earnestly begged she would explain all she meant by the hints she had given respecting the Baron, that poor Audrey, softened almost to tears by seeing her young lady really distressed, no longer remembered her former petulance, but readily complied with her request, though, in fact, all she knew amounted to little more than she had already told;—namely, that the Baron came to look for a wife to carry home, and shut up in his old castle;—that the Baron's servant had informed her he was in love with her young lady;—that Sir Philip liked him for a son-in-law, and they were soon to be married:—"But, Christ Jesus, miss! he is such an infamy man, he would no more mind ordering one of his vassals to be thrown into a fiery furnace than my master would killing a pig; and Pedro says, he ought to have been put into the spettacle court fifty and fifty times, for his entregens and fornications; for, before his first wife died—"
"What then? (exclaimed Roseline,) has the Baron been married more than once?"
"Bless your heart, miss, he has killed two wives already, and the Lord in his mercy shorten his days, that a third my never fall into the clutches of such a manufactor!—Miss, I would not fortify my word even to gain a gentleman for a husband; and, as I have a Christian soul, which I hope father Anselm will keep out of purgatory, I have told the truth, and only the truth; you must demonstrate with your father, but don't go for to get me turned out of my place for wishing to preserve you from being led to the haltar by such an old imperial task-master."
Roseline, too much alarmed to be as usual amused with the singular oratory of her simple but well-meaning attendant, thanked her for her good wishes, and promised never to mention the information she had communicated.
"Well, then, bless your sweet face! I'll be crucified but I'll municate to you all I can pick up. Pedro is marvelly keen and clever, yet he appears as innocent as the babe unborn, and for all he gets pretty gleanings and pickings out of his old master, he hates him as heartily as I hates fast-days and confessions; for you see, miss, one does not like to tell tales of oneself, and, in my opinion, some of monks and father confessors don't find in their hearts any ejection to us pretty girls."
Roseline, having dismissed her loquacious attendant, endeavoured to acquire sufficient fortitude to meet her father with composure, and to arm herself with resolution to withstand any attempts he might make to compel her into measures from which every feeling of her heart recoiled. She too well knew the warmth and obstinacy of her father's temper, when he met with opposition in a favourite plan, not to dread the contest. She now concluded, from many preceding circumstances, that the Baron was brought to the castle for the horrid purpose of becoming her husband, and unfortunately at this moment recollected with redoubled tenderness the very great difference between him and the man whom, by a chain of the most singular and interesting circumstances, she had been led to regard with a degree of affection she scarcely dared to investigate, and of which she knew not the full force. Her brother, her dear Edwin, too, had formed an attachment equally repugnant to the will and ambition of his father. The painful recollection awakened her warmest sympathy, and increased her own sorrows.
"Ah! (she exclaimed,) how darkly overclouded is the prospect which a few months back seemed so bright! Well, let the tempest come, let the thunder burst on my defenceless head, I will—"
Here she was interrupted by a summons to attend her father, which she instantly arose to obey; but her trembling limbs were scarcely able to support her, and she was obliged to rest several times before she could sufficiently recover herself to appear in his presence, without discovering the long and severe conflicts she had vainly endeavoured to conquer.
Sir Philip, on her entering the room, eagerly arose to meet her, and either did not, or, what is more probable, would not seem to notice her confusion. He tenderly took her hand, and led her to a chair; then, seating himself by her, observed with a smile, that he doubted not her curiosity had been excited, and told her he would have a kiss before he would disclose the secret; "for the business (he continued) which I have to negotiate with my sweet girl demands secresy."
Roseline, afraid of trusting her voice, bowed in silence, but her manner shewed she was all attention.
"My dear girl, (said Sir Philip,) why all this apparent tremor? I hope you are, and ever have been convinced that my first, my most anxious wishes are to see my children happy."—
(Then, thought Roseline, you will not surely so much mistake the road to happiness as to propose your friend to me for a husband.)
"Baron Fitzosbourne has solicited me to intercede with you in his behalf. Notwithstanding the greatness of his pretensions, he has even condescended to entreat I would intercede with my dear Roseline, that she will in due time permit him to lead her to the altar."
Roseline, extremely agitated, made an attempt to speak, which Sir Philip observing, said, "Attend to me a few moments longer, my dear; I will then give you leave to express your joyful surprise at the good fortune which awaits you.—My noble friend, from the very first moment of seeing you, loved, and wished to make you his own: he, like a man of honour, inquired if your heart was disengaged; I assured him it was, for I knew you too well, my dear girl, to suppose you would ever dispose of it without a father's sanction. Eager to possess a treasure which had never strayed from its own spotless mansion, he then requested my permission to become a candidate for your favour. I readily and freely gave it, and encouraged him to hope he would meet neither with caprice nor opposition; at the same time I candidly told him, that, though my fortune was upon the whole considerable, yet, as my family was large and still might increase, my daughter's portions could be but small,—so very small, that I feared it would prove an impediment to your union. He generously overlooked this objection, and wishes only to gain your heart and hand; while the share you would be entitled to have of your father's property he requests may be given among the rest of my family, and he will make an equal settlement upon you, as if you brought him a large fortune. Indeed, so noble and disinterested were his proposals, that they both gratified and astonished me: they are such as no parent could receive with indifference,—no young woman refuse. The Baron has not only a princely fortune, but a princely spirit, and such unbounded interest, that my Roseline will not only secure rank and splendor to herself, but will prove the fortunate means of obtaining them for her brothers and sisters, and of making the last closing scenes of her parents' days happier and freer from care than they have ever been."
Ah! thought Roseline, and her own irretrievably wretched; for, among all the treasures to be purchased by this unnatural union, happiness is not included. She sighed deeply, and, without looking up, remained silent.
Sir Philip, rather alarmed at the alteration in her countenance, which changed from being extremely flushed to the most deadly paleness; and, observing a tear stealing down her cheeks, still appeared determined to think he should find no difficulty in over-ruling any little objection she might venture to make. He put one hand into her's, and the other round her waist, and again addressing her, said, "He did not wonder that an offer so splendid and noble should affect and overpower a spirit humble and unassuming as her's. I always knew the inestimable value of the Baron's friendship, and am equally sensible of the rich prize I possess in a daughter; but I never dared to cherish the grateful hope that I should live to see two persons on whom I depended for so large a portion of my happiness united, or that a child of De Morney's was to repay the noble Baron for his generosity to her father."
"For heaven's sake! my dear dear father, (cried the almost fainting Roseline,) do not thus seem to misunderstand the nature of feelings entitled to your tenderest pity.—I never, never can love the Baron!"
Sir Philip hastily arose; fury flashed from his eyes; every feature was beginning to be convulsed with passion, but he struggled against the rage he wished to subdue, while she continued,—"Consider my extreme youth; contrast it with the age of your friend;—can I be a fit or eligible wife for a man older than my father?—Would not that be to punish most severely the man for whom, so far from loving, I have ever felt an invincible dislike, which sometimes I have thought, if he stayed much longer at the castle, would increase to aversion."
Sir Philip, who had neither expected to meet nor was prepared to encounter an opposition so determined, was no longer able to keep his passion within bounds.