A few nights after, a monk, who had forgotten to place one of the consecrated vessels on the high altar, which father Anselm had particularly requested should be left there against the following day, on which the sacrament was to be administered with the utmost solemnity, on recollecting the omission, rose from his bed, and stole softly into the chapel to obey the orders he had received. This unfortunately was a night on which the lovers had agreed to meet. Before he had reached the altar, he was somewhat startled at seeing one of the oldest and most austere of the nuns kneeling by the grave of a father lately deceased, and with uplifted hands praying that pardon and peace might be extended to his soul.
The monk, when he came to the altar, instantly dropped on his knees before it, unwilling the old nun should suppose he came upon a less pious errand than herself; but he was soon frightened from his devotions by a soft voice, which seemed to descend from behind a very fine painting of the crucifixion.—He was desired to return to his cell, no longer to act the hypocrite, and in future to perform more punctually the duties of his office.
The monk no sooner heard this alarming address, than he hurried out of the chapel as fast as his gouty legs and the numerous infirmities of age would permit him; but the nun, who was at too great a distance from the monk to hear the cause of his terror, went on with those devotional rights which a particular regard for the departed father rendered so gratifying to the feelings of her pious and affectionate heart, that she was in no hurry to conclude them; when the same mysterious agent, whose voice appeared to rise from the grave of her deceased favourite, near which she was so devoutly kneeling, shivering with age and cold, roughly warned her to have done, advising her to go to rest and sleep in peace, as he did, who no longer could be disturbed by her tongue of benefited by her prayers.
The poor frightened nun scampered off as fast as she could, muttering something against the ingratitude of man, who, dead or alive, was unworthy the attentions of her pious sex. Yet, as she crossed herself, she secretly rejoiced at having, as she thought, obtained leave of heaven and father John to abstain from such great and unreasonable demands upon her oraisons in future.—She took care, however, the next morning to inform the monk, with seeming exultation, of her being so highly favoured as to hear a voice from heaven, which excused her from praying at those hours appointed for mortals to be at rest.
This was a night calculated to alarm the lovers; for no sooner had the nun left the chapel, than another entered to fetch a solemn relic, to send to a woman who was in travail, from the chest near which they were seated. As she was looking for the precious treasure, they were trembling at the danger they were in of being discovered; for there was but just time to step into the tomb which led to the subterraneous passage, when they were thus the third time disturbed.—The nun, as she closed the chest, was addressed in the following words.
"Wear Mary Magdalene's girdle twice a week:—place the scull of St. Lawrence at the East corner of your cell, and live on bread and water every fifth day; or neither you, nor your father-confessor will escape purgatory."
Down dropped the relic, and away ran the nun to repeat to her cher ami the warning which had been given her; but, whether he was as much terrified as herself we do not know, as the lovers very soon effected their escape, and the voice was heard no more.
No longer to puzzle our readers, excite their fears, or keep them in suspense, respecting this miraculous voice, which had alarmed the Baron in his visit to the cells, and had likewise been the occasion of much surprise, and some exultation, to the pious inhabitants of the nunnery, it is necessary to inform them that it proceeded from Albert, who was himself a ventriloquist, or person possessed of the power of using a kind of artificial hollow voice, in such a manner, as to make the sound appear to come from any part of the room, where-ever he happened to be, or from any animal that was present in it.
This uncommon power, rarely known in that age, Albert had frequently exercised to amuse and entertain the solitary hours of his master, in his long and painful seclusion from the world, and afterwards to serve him and his friend.
It may not perhaps, in this place, be improper to mention, that, a few years since, a person came to St. Edmund's Bury, in Suffolk, whose uncommon and wonderful powers of throwing his voice to any distance, and into whatever place he chose, alarmed some, and surprised all who witnessed this strange and almost unaccountable phenomenon of nature; therefore, in an age so much more prone to indulge the idle chimaeras of superstition, so much under the dictatorial bigotry of priestcraft, it is not to be wondered that a circumstance so uncommon should be considered as miraculous, particularly among a set of men who had recourse to such various arts, and took such wonderful pains to instill into the minds of the people a firm and unshaken belief that miracles were shewn on some important occasions, in order to confirm the truth of the religion they professed.
By following the cautious directions of Albert, Madeline escaped from the nunnery undiscovered, and, accompanied by her lover, lost, in the happiness of the present moment, all remembrance of the trials she had sustained, and all apprehensions of what she might encounter in future. Edwin, from a principle of honour, did not inform his friends, De Willows, De Clavering and Camelford, of his intention; the only tax he levied on their friendship was to borrow a small sum of money of them to supply present exigencies, and procure such accommodations on the road as would be most agreeable and convenient to his fair companion.
About midnight he led the trembling agitated maid, unattended by any one but himself, to the entrance of the subterranean passage. With difficulty and danger they made their way through this scene of desolation and terror. Having opened the door which led them through the same gloomy paths Edwin had formerly traced, they narrowly escaped being discovered by the centinels who guarded Mettingham-Castle.—Alarmed at their danger, they made not a moment's delay, but hurried on till they came to a retired and almost unfrequented road, where they found a man and horses waiting their arrival. These horses had been hired of a countryman, who agreed to send for them the next morning to a neighbouring town.
Though money was undoubtedly very scarce in the age in which the characters lived that furnished us with these memoirs, yet the necessaries of life were all so cheap, and the people in general so extremely hospitable, that it required but a moderate sum to procure accommodations for a journey to the most distant part of the kingdom, and, as there was then no marriage-act in force, the road to the temple of Hymen was more frequented, because it was neither found so difficult nor so thorny as it has been to too many of the present age.
As to the vulgar and old-fashioned habits of eating and drinking, they are matters in general but little thought of in expeditions under the directions of a god who is too sublime to be satisfied with common food. Our lovers felt so little inconvenience from either hunger or thirst, that they determined to make no delays on their journey, but such as were absolutely necessary. They were epicures only in love, and, till they arrived in London, were perfectly satisfied with such repasts as were to be procured from any of the humble cottages on the road, by which prudent precaution they escaped undiscovered, notwithstanding the clamour their elopement had occasioned.
The morning after their arrival in London, a priest joined their hands in marriage, and rendered indissoluble those tender ties which had long united their hearts in love's most pleasing fetters. Too happy for reflection to interrupt their nuptial joys, too inexperienced to look forward to the consequences of an union thus inauspiciously commenced, and too sanguine to think the fond delusions of love could end but with life, they lived for many days in what might be called the delirium of the senses: in each other they saw and possessed all that constituted their ideas of pleasure. Madeline was the wife of the enamoured Edwin, and he was blest.—Edwin was become the husband and protector of Madeline, what then could she have to fear, for Edwin was the world to her?
Alas! what a pity that so few, so scarce, and so short, are the hours of mortal happiness! and that the fallacious foundation on which we rest such innumerable pleasing hopes, which present to our deluded imaginations the most lovely and inviting prospects, should so soon fall to the ground, and humble our air-built expectations in the dust!
As long as their little fund of worldly wealth held out, our new married lovers never recollected it must come to an end, or bestowed a thought on what steps were to be taken to secure the continuance of that felicity they had gone such daring lengths to obtain; but an empty purse soon compelled them to recollect, that two people, however tender their attachment, or superlative their abilities,—however lovely their persons, or captivating their manners, require more substantial food than the god of love will condescend to furnish them with.
Accustomed to affluence, and not knowing what it was to be deprived even of the luxuries of life, they shuddered at the poverty which stared them in the face, and threatened them with absolute starvation: they blushed too at their own inability to procure for themselves the common necessaries of life, and felt some very uncomfortable sensations at being in a stranger's house without the means of paying for their lodging or accommodations. To declare their poverty they were ashamed, and to make themselves and situation known was to run the risk of being separated for ever, as Edwin had no doubt but Madeline would be torn from him, and compelled to a monastic life, if discovered before his friends were reconciled, and would use their interest to procure his pardon.
Luckily, Madeline, amidst her new born fears, recollected it would be no difficult matter to find so great a man as Baron Fitzosbourne, and accordingly Edwin, wrapped up and disguised as much as possible, sat off to find his residence, and to obtain an interview with his two friends, Walter and Albert. He fortunately found the latter at home, and in a few hours was by him secretly admitted to Walter, who flew to embrace and welcome him to his father's mansion, making a number of tender inquiries after Roseline and the rest of his friends at the castle. He was both shocked and astonished when informed of Edwin's distressed and perilous situation, gently reproached him for not applying to him before, and for not haven given him the slightest information of his intention before he married.
Edwin mad the best excuses he could for his reserve. Vague and unsubstantial as they were, the generous Walter was soon reconciled to his friend, put his purse into his hand, and insisted upon being immediately introduced to his lovely bride. They returned with Edwin to his lodgings, and found Madeline in a state of the most painful and restless suspense, which their presence instantly dispersed. After the compliments and congratulations were over, they sat down to consider seriously what could be done, and what steps were most proper to be taken to secure the persons of the new-married couple. Albert strenously advised them not to attempt seeing the Baron in their present situation, but to wait patiently till some plan could be adopted for their farther safety. Walter promised in the mean time to supply them with money for all necessary expences.
The meeting of these friends was cordial and tender, and more cheerful than could have been supposed. Walter repeatedly protested, notwithstanding the difficulty and dangers with which they were surrounded, that he envied more than he pitied them,—complained of his own situation, as being more distressing and uncomfortable than their's, and declared himself unable to support a much longer separation from Roseline, without the deprivation of reason being added to that of all his other enjoyments.
On refection, it was thought better that Walter should make the situation of the young couple known to the Baron without farther delay: this he readily undertook; for, as the danger was great, rewards having been offered for the person of Madeline, procrastination would have only served to increase the difficulties they had to encounter.
Walter succeeded in his embassy beyond his hopes, and soon prevailed upon his father to comply with a plan they had thought of for the better security of Madeline; namely, retiring secretly for the present to the environs of one of the Baron's castles, at a great distance from the metropolis, and concealing their real names and persons under the habits of peasants. To this scheme the Baron readily agreed, and promised not only to exert his utmost interest to procure a pardon for them both, but instantly to write to Sir Philip and Lady de Morney to inform them of their safety and situation, and intercede on their behalf. He likewise called upon them the following day, presented them with a supply of cash for present exitgencies, and sent them in one of his own carriages to the place of their concealment, where we will for a short time leave them, only observing they were as happy as our first parents before their fall: they sometimes indeed recollected the danger of being discovered, and trembled at the thought; but so much did they depend on the friendship and power of the Baron to protect them, should the dreadful misfortune ever befall them, that they determined not to let uncertain apprehensions of what might happen in future prevent their enjoying that portion of happiness which was now in their power, and the author would wish every one who peruses these pages to adopt and encourage the same useful philosophy.
Walter, from the time of his arrival in London, till a few days previous to his seeing Edwin, had been restless and uncomfortable. The first master of the age had been procured to instruct him. He was presented to his sovereign, and his introduction was attended with the most marked and distinguished honours.
Many fair ladies in the higher circles were lavish of their smiles, and many parents would gladly have seen him added to the train of their daughters' admirers, and, to lure him to their purpose, solicited his friendship, and sent him repeated invitations to their houses.
Pleasure courted him in a thousand varying forms, but he beheld her most seducing blandishments with disgust and stoical indifference. Neither the novelty of the scenes with which he was surrounded, the flattering attentions of beauty, or the variety of amusements, of which he was in a manner compelled to partake, could for one moment detach his mind from the fascinating Roseline. With her dwelt every wish,—on her unshaken tenderness rested his every hope of permanent felicity; and, to have heard the sound of her enchanting voice, he would voluntarily have bidden adieu to London, and all its pleasures.—If he attended to the instructions of his masters, he was actuated by the same motives, and he wished to be as wise as Plato, that he might be more worthy to possess a treasure he estimated beyond the wealth of worlds.—Noble young man!—would love operate on all youthful minds as it did on thine, it would be entitled to universal praise, and might justly be called the guardian-friend of innocence, the patron of every virtue.
At length, both the Baron and Albert were not only surprised, but alarmed at the visible alteration they observed in Walter, who often absented himself, and when questioned where he had been, and how he had been amusing himself, hesitated in his answers, and appeared at a loss what to say.
One evening the Baron particularly requested he would accompany him to some public place; but he pleaded a prior engagement, and, on being asked the nature of it, gave so trifling and unsatisfactory an answer, that the Baron was seriously displeased, and left the room, telling him he did not like to be treated with reserve, recommended him to recollect how much he had already been made a dupe to mysterious transactions, and not to forget that he had likewise been nearly a victim to artifice before he knew guile in his own heart or person.
As soon as he left the room, Albert approached his beloved master, and, with a tear trembling in each eye, told him he was to blame, and begged he would follow his father, and do away his displeasure, by going as he requested.
"My dear fellow, (cried Walter,) my father's anger I could bear unmoved, because I do not feel myself deserving of it, but your gentle reproof has in a moment found its way to my heart. Perhaps I may be to blame, but surely, Albert, it is a little hard upon me to be compelled to stay in this place without being sometimes allowed to amuse myself according to my own inclination!"
"What on earth (said Albert, with a sigh,) can on a sudden have made this change in you, who so lately had an invincible objection to going among strangers, lest you should fall into the snares that are so frequently spread to entangle the unwary!—I thought——"
"Allons, my dear fellow, (replied the impatient Walter,) don't just now attempt to think;—you are a good creature:—but I can stay no longer listen to you; I will hear you as early as you please in the morning. Would to God my sweet Roseline had accompanied her brother to London!"
"Would to heaven she had! (sighed Albert:) Here is something wrong going forwards. I must be on my guard how I proceed, or my young master will be drawn into some scrape that may lead to mischief, while the fair maid of the castle may be left to wear the willow.—Now, or never, must be the moment of action.—A thought has struck me;—it must be so."
Away went Albert, and I hope none of my readers will have any objection to accompany him in his friendly expedition.
He instantly hurried out of the house, attended by a stout and faithful servant.—They were so quick in their proceedings, that they very soon perceived the object of their pursuit walking before them. After following him through many streets, they saw him stop at a very good-looking house, the door of which was opened by a servant in a rich livery. Albert hesitated for a moment what to do:—to follow him would have been both daring and imprudent, and, instead of setting matters to rights, might have brought on greater difficulties; he therefore stepped into a jeweller's shop nearly opposite the house into which the young Fitzosbourne had entered, desiring his servant to keep a watchful eye. He spent a few shillings, and then carelessly inquired of the shopkeeper who it was inhabited the handsome house in which he saw so many lights.
The man smiled, looked at him very earnestly, and then replied, "If I did not think you were a stranger, sir, I should have supposed you were joking with me, by asking that question, for I thought all the world had known the Jezebel who lives there."
"You have raised my curiosity to a higher pitch,(said Albert.) I have so long been absent from this city, that I know but little of what has been doing in it, and would thank you to answer my question with sincerity, while I am looking over the things I want to purchase."
"No man (replied the complaisant shopkeeper) is happier to please his customers than I am, or more grateful for favours received; but, as one person's money is as good as another's, and as I take a pretty round sum every year from the fair inhabitants of that house, I have no business to be telling of their frailties: however, if I can oblige you, sir, and you will promise me to be secret, and not bring my name in question."——
Albert now became more and more eager to obtain the wished-for intelligence, and not only promised all that he had requested, but to reward him for his trouble, by recommending his shop to some friends who had it greatly in their power to serve him. This at once put an end to the honest jeweller's reserve; for, though he would not voluntarily have told a scandalous tale of any one, yet he saw no objection to speaking the truth when he could serve himself by so doing.
"Please your honour, (he began, for he took it into his head at that moment that Albert was a great man,) in that house lives the noted Mrs. C——, who keeps so many fine young women, that all the fine young men of the age are fond of obtaining admittance, though for that indulgence they often sacrifice health, fortune, and even life itself. Ah! God knows, I have seen sad doings, and many a one have I wished might escape the plans laid for their destruction; but, if the devil himself were to fall into her clutches, I think he would be puzzled to effect his escape."
"Has she many visitors just now?" interrupted Albert.
"As to their number, that is impossible for me to ascertain; but of this I am positive, she is never without some, and at this very time I think there is something extraordinary going on, for one of her nymphs came this morning to purchase a wedding-ring, and, on my joking her a little on the subject, she said it was not for herself but Miss C——, daughter to the old hag, who is a very lovely girl, and well known upon the town. On my expressing myself happy to hear she was going to marry, and become an honest woman, the girl burst into a violent fit of laughter, and called me a puritanical hypocrite."
"Let Catharine once become a wife, (said she,) and then we shall see who will dare to call her virtue in question. She will, I hope, before to-morrow night be married to the only son of one of the wealthiest barons in the kingdom,—a young nobleman who knows so little of the world, that it is absolutely necessary he should have a wife who can instruct him, and I know no one better able to undertake the task than the daughter of Mrs. C——."
Albert with difficulty concealed his agitation at hearing this alarming tale. Recovering himself, however, he inquired of his informer if he recollected the name of the young gentleman.—After a moment's hesitation, the jeweller replied, "the name was twice repeated, but it ran so glibly off the lady's tongue, that I have since forgotten it."
"Should you know it again?" asked Albert; who, on the jeweller's answering that he thought he should, mentioned several, to all of which a negative was given. At length Fitzosbourne was introduced.—"The very person, (cried the jeweler;)—the Baron has but one son; and him, as this girl told me, he has but lately found: but he is such an ideot, and so easily imposed on, that, upon my soul, were I his father, I should think him better lost than found."
The jeweller might have gone on with his observations as long as he pleased, had not his distressed auditor recollected the danger in which, perhaps, his beloved young master was at that moment involved. He started up, and, catching hold of his companion's hand, told him, he must that moment go with him. The man drew back: Albert perceived the folly of his abruptness, and, making some apologies, informed the astonished jeweller, that the business on which he was going would admit of no delay,—that if he would accompany him, lend his assistance, and procure two or three spirited young men to be of the party, he should be well rewarded for his trouble, and would have reason to bless the day chance directed him to his shop.
This promise was a sufficient temptation to a tradesman who had a large family, little money, and few friends. He summoned some of his men from an adjoining workshop, and, thus attended, Albert sallied into the street. His servant, who was in waiting, informed his master a priest had been just admitted into the house he was watching, and that he had seen the young lord at the window with a beautiful woman hanging on his arm, who appeared to be in tears.
This intelligence made them hurry on.—Albert rapped at the door, requesting the others to keep out of sight till he was secure of obtaining admittance. A servant soon appeared; Albert inquired if his mistress were at home. The fellow replied that his lady was then particularly engaged, and could not be spoken to, adding, he might call again in the morning.
"The morning will not do, my friend; I must see your mistress this evening, (said Albert;) my business is quite as particular, I believe, as that in which she may be engaged, therefore make way, and let me come in."
The fellow attempted to shut the door, but the posse in waiting, on being beckened by Albert, came to his assistance, and they all rushed into the house. Albert, the jeweller, and the rest of the party, except one, who was left to guard the fellow at the door, went as gently as possible up a spacious staircase. They heard voices at a distance, and were directed by the sound to a door of the apartment which contained the party, who appeared to be engaged in a warm dispute.
At times they could distinguish female voices, and very soon Albert heard that of his beloved master exalted to its highest pitch. This at once determined him to open the door, but he found it fastened within side: he then loudly demanded admittance; a female scream was all the answer he received. Again he called: some one then asked what he wanted, adding, whoever it was that intruded on them so rudely must wait till another opportunity.
"Wait no longer, (cried Walter,) but force the door; I know not but my life may be endangered."
The door was instantly burst open. What a scene presented itself! Walter, with a face pale as ashes, and apparently in the utmost confusion, was endeavouring to disengage himself from the embraces of a young woman, who had fallen at his feet, and clasped her arms around him. The priest held a prayer-book in his hand, which was opened at the matrimonial service.—A fierce looking man in a naval uniform, the old procuress, and another of her nymphs completed the group.
The instant Walter saw his friend enter the apartment, by a desperate effort he disengaged himself from the syren who had held him captive, flew to Albert, and brandishing his sword, called upon the wretch who had endeavoured to inveigle him into a forced marriage to draw, and receive the reward of his treachery; but Albert ordered the culprit to be secured, and requested Walter not to stain the purity of his sword with the blood of such a villain.—During this contest, the women and the priest sneaked out of the room unobserved, and, though the strictest search was made throughout the house, not a creature could be found in it that belonged to the family, but the servant who admitted them, and who had been prevented following the rest by the person left to guard him.
Albert insisted, before he left the house, on sending for proper officers to take the prisoners into custody; but Walter, who wished this affair to be kept as secret as possible, entreated, with so much earnestness, on the villain's making a promise of amendment, and leaving the kingdom, to have him liberated, that his friend, after a little hesitation, complied, on condition that the two fellows should be left bound in different apartments till the vile mistress of the house, or some of her associates, should venture to return.
The honest jeweller was entreated to be secret, and promised an ample recompense. His people were liberally paid, and Albert, with an exulting heart, attended home his agitated friend, who, after recovering his spirits in some degree, gave him the following account of the circumstances which had drawn him into a situation that might have been as fatal to his peace as they would have been disgraceful to his character, had not his guardian-friend arrived in time to prevent the threatened danger, the whole of which he was now convinced had been planned for the purpose of drawing him into marriage, resting their hopes of success on his ignorance of the world.
"I take shame to myself, dear Albert, (said the grateful Walter,) for not informing you this evening of my engagement, which you, who know the strength of my attachment to the charming Roseline, will not suppose was meant to be of the nature it proved. I knew not that the worthless woman, whose daughter it has been my ill luck frequently to meet at several public places, was of so despicable a character.—Chance, or, as I now suspect, design, has likewise frequently thrown her in my way in my morning rambles: but what induced me to visit at her mother's house, was the having found her one evening in the passage of the play-house, waiting the arrival of her carriage, in the greatest distress; and what served to add to it was the behaviour of two or three young men, who said some very rude things to her in my hearing, for which I chastised them with my cane, and the frightened fair one fainted in my arms as soon as I had driven them away. I supposed they had been led to insult her by having made too free with the bottle; but they doubtless knew her well enough to discover her designs against me.
"When she recovered from the fit into which I imagined they had terrified her, I could do no less than see her home; and, when I called the next morning, I was introduced to her mother, whose unbounded gratitude and flattering acknowledgments, for the trifling service I had rendered her sweet and amiable daughter, overwhelmed me with confusion, and convinced her I was a fool exactly suited to her purpose.
Being always received with the utmost politeness, and seeing nothing in the conduct or behaviour of either mother or daughter to excite suspicion, I continued to call upon them whenever I chanced to pass that way, and was in the humour to wish for conversation. They boasted of being of an ancient family in the North of England, appeared to live in credit and affluence, treated me with the utmost hospitality, and pressed me so warmly to make them frequent visits, that I promised to comply with their request, because I supposed by so doing I was removing a weight of obligation from their minds which seemed to give them pain.
Once or twice it happened when I called, that the young lady had walked out, and the mother said a good deal about the mortification it would be to her to be told at her return I had called upon them in her absence; but this, till about two hours ago, I considered as being the effusions of gratitude.
"And how (inquired Albert) were you at length undeceived?"
"By her mother," continued Walter, who, after some little hesitation, with an appeal to my honour and humanity, to excuse the weakness of a fond parent, informed me of the passion I unfortunately, and as she feared undesignedly, had inspired in the bosom of her daughter, a passion she much doubted she would never be able to subdue, adding, that, just before my arrival, she had by mere force compelled her to walk out for air, as she saw with heart-felt distress the ravages despair had made in the constitution of her inestimable child.
I lamented the consequences of my intro-troduction, and added, I would no more venture into a family whose peace I had disturbed, acknowledged a prior engagement, and was about to quit the house, when the old lady entreated me earnestly not to adopt a measure so cruel and unjust: I therefore promised to call again; and, receiving an invitation for this evening, accepted it, but did not suppose them the kind of people they have proved.
"Had you no suspicion of their character?" asked Albert.
"None, by heaven! (replied Walter.)—I never saw the least appearance of indecency, or even levity, and heard no conversation that would have offended the nice ear of a Roseline de Morney."
"The scheme was deeply laid, (said Albert.)—Pray proceed; I am impatient to know how you were received this evening."
"First by the mother, (continued Walter, who appeared in the greatest distress.—On my inquiring the cause, she said she had informed Catharine of what had passed between us; that, on being told I was engaged, she fainted several times, and, before she recovered, her nephew, who was just returned from abroad, called at the house. This young man, she said, had been long passionately attached to her; that on seeing the situation of his cousin, he was necessarily informed of the cause,—was now with her, and had so earnestly entreated to have the honour of being introduced to me, that she could not find resolution to deny his request.—
"I will confess to you, my dear Albert, I now began to suspect some design was formed against me; but of what nature I was still at a loss to conjecture. I luckily had put on my sword, and I determined, if they attempted to confine or ill treat me, to sell my life as dearly as I could. However, it was not my life they wanted; they had a more ambitious and less dangerous scheme in view. In a little time, the lady, drowned in tears, and with well-acted distress, entered the room, accompanied by her cousin, as the mother had called him. The gentleman chose to put on a fierce and threatening look, and swore I should do justice to his charming cousin, whom he loved more than life, or that moment settle the matter with him as a gentleman ought to do.
I laid my hand on my sword: Catharine flew to me, fell at my feet, and begged I would not terrify her to death by exposing a life so dear to the risk of fighting with her cousin. She then lamented her weakness, and entreated me to compassionate the sorrows in which I had involved her.
I loudly demanded what all this meant,—declared I had no design against her heart, nor any desire to be favoured with her hand, my own having been long engaged to the best and fairest of her sex, and to whom alone all my wishes were confined. The gentleman again approached me; the lady chose to fall into a fit, and was supported by her female accomplices. A priest at that moment entered the room.
"You are come in good time, (said the pretended cousin,) to assist us in performing an act of justice."
The young lady at that instant recovered, and, seeing her coming to me, I flew to the window, with an intention of opening it to call for assistance, and, on finding it fastened, had no longer any doubts of their premeditated designs against my peace. I therefore shook off the fair syren, (who had clasped her hands around my arm, and, with tears, and all the blandishments of artful beauty, besought me to have compassion on her sufferings,) and made an effort to get out at the door; that was likewise fastened. I then eagerly inquired for what base purpose I was thus forcibly detained, and what it was they wanted with me.
"Justice, (replied the bully;—justice only!—Reverend father, (said he, addressing himself to the priest,) this fair damsel has been robbed of her peace: her virgin fame must be lost in consequence, unless that youth (pointed to me) will make her reparation, by giving her his hand in marriage. It is to join them in holy wedlock we sent for you."
"I was now enraged too much, (continued Walter,) to have longer any command over my passion.—I drew my sword, and vowed to sacrifice any one who should dare to prevent my leaving the infamous house into which I had been so artfully and basely trepanned.
The women now clung about me, while their bully endeavoured, but in vain, to wrest my sword from me. He then commanded the priest to do his office, and I know not, at that moment, what act of desperation I might not have committed, had not you, my guardian friend and preserver, luckily burst into the room, and prevented my ending that life in a brothel which you protected so many years in a dungeon."
Albert embraced his young lord with tears of gratified affection.
"Long, very long, (cried he,) may your life be guarded from every danger, and never experience a fate so disgraceful! I will inform the Baron of what has passed: he will very soon bring these wretches to the shame and punishment they so justly deserve."
"Not for worlds, my good Albert, would I have the story transpire! (said Walter.)—I already know enough of human nature to be satisfied that the recital of it would not only bring my father's displeasure upon me, but likewise the ridicule of the world. Be assured of this, I will never again run the risk of being drawn into danger by forming an acquaintance with people, however specious their appearance, without their being well known to my father or yourself. All I beg of you is, to join with me in interceding with the Baron for permission to return to Bungay-castle. I will there wait his pleasure, without murmur or complaint, for the accomplishment of all my wishes. With Roseline de Morney I cannot be unhappy;—without her my soul can know no peace."
Albert promised to do what he could with the Baron, but requested his young lord not to be too sanguine in his hopes of prevailing on him to consent to his leaving London, till the time was expired that he had fixed for his stay, and on his promising not to offend him by disputing his will as to the length of his continuance in town, he agreed to conceal this unpleasant adventure from the Baron, strongly recommending him to be more guarded in future, and never to let his own unsuspecting nature lead him to conclude that the people he mixed with were as good and as artless as himself.
From the time Walter became more and more dissatisfied with his situation. He no longer contended with the Baron respecting the length of his stay, or refused to accompany him whenever he was requested to any public amusement or private party. But he became so restless and internally wretched, that it became impossible to conceal entirely how much he was distressed.—He wrote many letters to Roseline. The following is a copy of that which he sent a few days after his being so fortunately saved by Albert from the diabolical plan laid to render him miserable during life, and at the same time would have made the innocent Roseline as unhappy as himself.
My ever dear and charming Roseline,
I cannot live much longer in this detestable place, where the women are artful, the men base and designing. I am pointed at as being a fit dupe for vice to ensnare: my ignorance often leads me into error, and my own unsuspecting disposition exposes me to ridicule. If I must learn to be like the people with whom I often associate here, I shall grow in a little time so weary of existence, that I shall only wish it preserved on your account.
The immense distance between this place and the castle you inhabit renders it doubly detestable. It is a scene of bustle, confusion, and design; its amusements are all frivolous and trifling; its pleasures are joyless, unsocial, and unsatisfactory, and I a mere cypher, dull and alone, amidst a crowd of beings, for whom I feel neither respect nor friendship. In fact, I am never more alone than when I am surrounded by hundreds of people, not one of whom cares for my happiness. I had rather be with you in one of the gloomiest dungeons of Bungay-castle than in the palace of our king, unless you were by my side.
I have seen a great many young ladies that are called beauties; but I think none of them half so beautiful as my gentle Roseline; neither do they appear so good humoured, nor is their dress so becoming, though they wear as many diamonds as you did on the fortunate morning you went to be married to my father. And would you think it?—one of them actually endeavoured to draw me to marry her; though I repeatedly told her I could love no woman but you.
I have neither spirits nor appetite; I can neither laugh nor sing, and, if the Baron have a mind to make me polite,—if he wish me to acquire knowledge,—if he de desirous I should become what he calls an useful member of society, he must no longer keep us separate. It is your company only that could give a charm to that of other people, and, if I could see you, I should love the world for your sake. I shall die, dear Roseline, unless they permit me to come to you.
Madeline, though she wept, was happy, and looked handsomer than ever; and Edwin,—ah! how I envied your brother Edwin! He may be thankful he was not the son of a Baron, compelled like me to go through the tiresome drudgery of unmeaning ceremonies, and all the disgusting and nonsensical forms which they tell me belong to a rank.—I am sure rank would be more valuable and happier without them, and dignity far more pleasant to its possessors, if they could divest themselves of pride.
Commend be cordially to your parents.—Tell your sisters I love them as a brother, and make my respects to De Clavering, De Willows, and the honest Cambrian, to whom I hope one day to be of service.
Sweet Roseline, think of me, dream of me, and love no one but me. My father is very kind, very indulgent, and Albert very good, for he will hear me talk of you for hours together; but neither the Baron nor Albert can guess at the sufferings they inflict on me by this tedious absence from you, to whom I am indebted for life, hope, and happiness.
Your's forever,
When the above mentioned letter reached the hands of the dejected Roseline, it alarmed and distressed her. It was however accompanied by one from the Baron to Sir Philip had no longer any fears but his friend would succeed in procuring a pardon for the fugitives. Again the family of De Morney were restored to their accustomed cheerfulness, and their friends admitted as usual; and, though Roseline shed some tears over the fond impassioned letter of Walter, they were tears of grateful tenderness, and she took care that her sighs and unceasing regret for the absence of her lover should be concealed from those to whom they would have given pain. Edeliza too was no longer under the unpleasant necessity of concealing her love for the worthy De Willows. The heart of Sir Philip was softened by the trials he had encountered, and all the parent was awakened in his soul. He therefore consented to the union of his second daughter taking place as soon as her lover could command an income sufficient to maintain a wife and family; and, as he had many friends in power, every one cherished hopes of his soon obtaining some distinguished preferment.
Audrey, who was still a great favourite with her young lady, was now solely retained to attend her person, and wholly at her command. She considered herself therefore of some consequence, and gave herself airs accordingly. She did not choose to mix with the common class of servants,—truly a lady's maid's place was a place of too much extinction to permit any familiarity with infeerors.—No sooner did Audrey see the family restored to their usual good humour, than she herself became more lively and chatty than ever, and all her fears of ghosts and hobgoblins were lost in her own self-importance and newly-acquired dignity. She afforded high entertainment not only to her fellow-servants, but to all the rest of the family, and, to make her character appear more ridiculous, her dress was as absurd as her sentiments.
Whenever chance threw Mrs. Audrey in their way, it was become a matter of course to enter into conversation with her, and the vain Abigail was too proud of this flattering distinction not to make the most of it.
De Clavering, who was fond of the humorous, laughed at the absurdities of Audrey, and took every opportunity of shewing her off. One day, while he was sitting with Roseline in the apartment to which Walter had been removed, when released from his dungeon, Audrey came abruptly into the room, bringing in her arms the little dog frequently mentioned in the foregoing pages. She laid him on the lap of his fond mistress, and exclaimed, "There, madam, take the little wandering rascal. I have been in a fine quandrary about him, and have had a blessed rambulation to find him, and drag him from his low-bred wulger companions. To my thinks, he is as great a rake as the king himself, God bless his majesty; but the young Baron ought to have given him a better eddication than to keep company with his infeerors."
"I am sure, Audrey, (said De Clavering,) you are much indebted to the young rascal, as you call him; for the rambulation you complain of has given so fine a glow to your complexion, so much animation to each expressive feature, that may I die if I did not take you at first for a painted lady, and, had I met you in the passage, am afraid I should have been tempted to see whether those roses so fascinating and so blooming were borrowed or natural."
"Don't talk to me of hannimation or fansenation, (cried Audrey, indignantly drawing herself up several inches higher;) I can assure you, Mr. Doctor, I don't choose to be consulted. I neither buys, borrows, nor covets, roses; I neither wants to tempt or be tempted by any one; but if I was by chance to captify a sweetheart, I dares to say I should soon become pale enough; for I thinks love is as bad as a 'potticary's shop."
"I hope I have not offended you, Mrs. Audrey, (said De Clavering, laughing,) I only meant to be civil, and pay the tribute due to the bloom I observed upon your countenance."
"Fended or not, (replied Audrey,) it little matters. Servants, some folks thinks, must not look like other people, and their blooms must be suspected truly. However, as father Anselm often says, God made up all.—You might as well have been silent as to the matter of my looks. I don't want or wish gentlemen 'poticarys to ax me questions, or trouble their heads about me."
"You would not have been half so angry with Camelford, (said De Clavering,) had he said ten times as much to you as I have done, or had he he kissed you as often as I once saw him, when you ran to him under the mulberry tree."
"I don't think she would, (said Roseline, smiling,) for I know our friend Hugh is a great favourite with every female in the family."
"Wery vell, miss, (replied Audrey, blushing as red as scarlet at the story of the mulberry-tree,) you have a mind I see to join with the malicious doctor to dash and confound me; but I defy his satarical talons, and can ashure you, miss, though Mr. Camelfor is so cetious and merry, he never proffered to kiss me more than half a dozen times in his life."
"Take care how you reckon, Audrey, cried De Clavering, humourously,) remember I saw you under the mulberry-tree."
"Well, what if you did?—You might as well have said nothing about it, (replied Audrey.)—I was frightened almost into highsterricks by an ugly black cat jumping from a lylac bush, and I ran to Mr. Camelfor without knowing what I did, and he was so civil and perlite, God bless his good-humoured heart, one must have been a savage to quarrel with him for a civil kiss or two: he does not fleer or jeer people about their looks, or tells what he sees them doing."
Neither Roseline nor De Clavering could any longer refrain from laughing, and Camelford that moment entering the room, Audrey was so much displeased, and in so great a hurry to be gone, that, in running to the door, she almost beat down her favourite.
"Fat, in the name of Cot, (cried Hugh,) is the matter with the girl? She has as many freaks and fancies in her head as a mountain coat, and is as frolicksome too."
"You had better follow her, and make your inquiries, (said De Clavering;) I am satisfied the damsel would tell you what brought on her present disorder sooner than any body else."
"I am no toctor, (said Camelford,) therefore don't be playing tricks upon me, by sending me after the tamsel, and pringing little Pertha's anger upon me, which, may I tie in a titch, if I how how to bear."
"Oh! if you are enlisted under petticoat government, (replied De Clavering,) I give you up as incurable,—a deserter from the thorny paths of glory, and foresee the sword will be changed into a distaff or a ploughshare."
"Luf (cried Camelford) must not be apused; it is the best stimulus to crate and noble actions, the parent of pold atchievements; but of that same luf you know nothing: there is no heart in your pody, and you are mortified to think you cannot find a nostrum to cure the disease in others: you must therefore be caught in luf's snares, in order to learn the nature of those treadful tribulations it brings upon a man. May I go to the tevil in a high wind, if I had not as lief face a canon's mouth as meet the fire of Pertha's pright eyes, when they look indignantly upon me!"
"Don't talk so much of the devil, Hugh, (interrupted De Clavering,) but request him to do you the favour of kicking about your brains a little, till they return to a more useful station in your pericranium: in my opinion, you are in a fair way of becoming fist for the government under which you think yourself enlisted."
"May the vengeance of all womankind fall upon you! (cried Camelford:)—may you be tragged apout like a tancing pear, to make sport!—may you lead asses in the tark regions of Peelzebub, for your plasphemies against woman! and may—"
But all his farther denunciations and wishes for vengeance on De Clavering were now interrupted by a loud screaming. Soon the door was thrown open, and in bounced Audrey, her cap on one side, and her face as pale as ashes.
"I have seen him, (she exclaimed,) with my own dear eyes!—his ghost, or happorition!"
"Whose cost? (cried Camelford;) where is it?—I will teach a cost to frighten a pretty cirl, and trive her tistracted."
The manner and appearance of Audrey were such as served to confirm the suspicion in the mind of Roseline, and even De Clavering, till, offended by the supposition of her being insane, she called out in her usual peculiar stile, "Thank God! some folks are no more a lunatic than other folks. I have all my seven senses as perfect as ever I had in my life;—but, Christ Jasus, these are sad times, when one is not allowed to believe their own precious eyes.—Down dropped his horse, poor beast, all in a foam, and down tumbled the young Baron arter him, as dead as my my dear great grandmother."
"Who are you talking of? (cried Roseline, rising with the utmost emotion.)—Is the Baron?—is Walter?—is he dead?"
"He only died for a few minutes, (answered Audrey, and then he came to himself—"
She had time for no more. Roseline heard the well known step of her lover.—Walter rushed into the room, threw himself at her feet, and the next instant caught her in his arms.
"This moment (cried he) is that for which my heart has languished! this is a reward for all my fatigue, all my fears and anxieties!—Look up, smile upon me, and say, my sweet Roseline, that my return gives to you an almost equal pleasure as myself; but, first, let me inform you that I have left London without the knowledge and permission of my father."
That Roseline rejoiced to see her lover her eyes informed him, but for a few minutes surprise and agitation kept her silent. Sir Philip, Lady de Morney, and the whole family, were soon assembled in the apartment to which Walter had been directed by Audrey.
The young Baron, it may be supposed, found a cordial reception, and it is not to be doubted butthathe met with from the fair object of his affection was such as amply repaid him for his fatigue, and in his own mind even, for the risk he had hazarded of disobliging his father. This step, however, was owing to a hint dropped by the Baron, that it would be agreeable and convenient, to himself, and necessary for many reasons to his son, that they should prolong their stay in town for some weeks beyond what had been proposed, or intended on their departure from the castle.
On this plan being opposed by Walter, the Baron not only appeared displeased, but resolute to carry his point. A circumstance so distressing to his son rendered him equally determined not to submit to such arbitrary, and, in his opinion, cruel authority; therefore, early the next morning he sat off, without being attended by a servant, or informing any one to what part of the globe he meant to go, and the next day reached Bungay-castle in the manner before described.
Sir Philip de Morney, on learning these alarming circumstances from his daughter, immediately sent off an express to inform the Baron of his son's unexpected arrival, and of his apprehensions that the step he had so unguardedly taken would bring his displeasure upon himself and family, whom he seriously assured him knew nothing of his intention.
Walter, in his conversations with Roseline, told her, he found himself so disgusted with the customs and manners of the world, and met with so few people in it to whom he could attach himself, or for whom he felt either respect or affection, that he determined no longer to be detained from her in whose care his happiness was intrusted, and with whom alone he was satisfied it could rest secure.
"And, as you condescended, (he continued,) to love and attend to me when immured in a dungeon,—kindly smiled on me, and endeavoured to instruct me when enveloped in ignorance, and was my friend when I appeared to have no claims,—a solitary outcast from society, I thought you would not be very much displeased if I forsook the world for you, who gave up more, much more, for me, and quitted its gayest and most cheerful scenes for the solitary gloom of a prison.
"Whatever I may still want of polish, address, and what fashionable people stile politeness, love and my gentle Roseline can easily teach me. From a world that I neither like nor approve, I could learn but little, while the chosen mistress of my heart may at her pleasure make me any thing she wishes. With her, and for her amusement, I may be sometimes tempted to live in a crowd; without her, the world itself is only a wide extended dungeon."
Roseline, at hearing this impassioned language from lips which, she was satisfied, knew no guile, was too much gratified to express all she felt. She smiled on him through her tears, and, in the softest language affection could dictate, gently chid him for being so impetuous as to run the risk of disobliging his father on her account, expressing a few timid apprehensions that the Baron might be offended with her as being the innocent cause of his son's proving refractory to his wishes; yet she could not help secretly rejoicing in the strength of his attachment, on which all her happiness depended.
Every thing was done by the family to give this amiable and singular lover a reception not only suitable to his elevated rank, but satisfactory to his feelings,—such an one as the sincerity of his regard for Roseline demanded and deserved, while the joy which appeared upon the animated countenances of the lovers convinced every one who saw them, that they had fixed their hopes of felicity on a basis which the hand of death only could shake from its foundations.
Walter, in his moments of unreserve, expressed his surprise, dislike, and contempt, of many things, persons, and customs, which he met with in the high circles to which he had been introduced, and concluded with wishing that the Baron could be prevailed upon to excuse his farther attendance, adding, it was his determined plan, so far as it met the approbation of his beloved Roseline, to spend as much of his time as the nature of his situation would permit in the placid bosom of retirement, in which he hoped to make himself as useful and worthy a member of the commonwealth as he should be if engaged in more bustling and busy scenes.
"One would think (said De Clavering, who happened to be present when this conversation occurred) that the young Baron had been educated by some of our wise and ancient philosophers, and, taught by their precepts, was convinced by them that happiness was too timid and modest to be found in the confines of a court, or the splendors of a ball-room. It reminds me of Enthymenes, who, speaking of the pleasures of solitude to a man of the world, makes the following observations.
"You are compelled to a continual restraint in your dress, demeanour, actions, and words:—your festivals are so magnificent, and our's so mirthful!—your pleasures so superficial and so transient, and our's so real and so constant! Have you ever in your rich apartments breathed an air so fresh as that which we respire in the verdant arbour?—or can your entertainments, sometimes so sumptuous, compare with the bowls of milk which we have just drawn, or those delicious fruits we have gathered with our hands?
"Ah! if happiness be only the health of the soul, must it not be found in those places, where a just proportion ever reigns between our wants and our desires, where motion is constantly followed by rest, and where our affections are always *accompapanied by tranquillity, breathe a free air, and enjoy the splendor of heaven.—From these kind of comparisons we may judge which are the true riches that nature designed for men."
"Such were the opinions and sentiments of Enthymenes, and such I find are those of De Clavering, (replied Walter,) or he would not have retained and repeated them with so much facility and satisfaction.—Were my fate united with that of Miss de Morney, and had I two such friends as De Clavering and Albert, to direct my conduct and enlarge the small portion of knowledge I have yet been able to acquire, I should think myself the most fortunate as well as the happiest of mankind, having already experienced a long series of oppression from the baneful arts and stratagems of ambition, I have learned to despise it, and, in the gloomy and trying hour of adversity, have been taught, that fortitude, with humility and untainted honour, can harmonize, but can never degrade the most exalted stations, and, while they are the brightest jewels that could adorn a crown, they enrich and ennoble the lowest peasant."
In a few days, the Baron, accompanied by Albert, arrived at the castle. The frown which appeared upon his brow, at his first entrance, was instantly dispersed when the trembling Roseline sunk at his feet, and entreated him to pardon the eccentric flight of her lover, of which, as she was the cause, if his displeasure continued, it would inflict equal distress upon herself as upon his son.
To resist so fair a supplicant was not in the Baron's power. He tenderly raised her from the ground, and the next morning embraced her lover. The utmost harmony and a general cheerfulness soon prevailed, and, before the parties separated for the night, the Baron candidly and generously acknowledged, that, at the same age, and under the same circumstances as his son, he believed he should have acted as he had done. "And upon the whole, (said he,) I was not very sorry when the obstinate sighing boy took himself away; for I was grown weary of having to introduce, and make such frequent apologies for so absent, lifeless, and refractory a being."
What served to reconcile matters the sooner was, that Albert, after the sudden disappearance of his young lord, had informed his father of Mrs. C—-'s infamous stratagem to draw him into a marriage with her artful and abandoned daughter. He was so much enraged at hearing the lengths to which these wretches had dared to go, that strict search was made after them, but without effect.
Walter, too, told Roseline of the designs which had been formed to entrap him, and, while she looked at him with increased delight, she secretly rejoiced that he had left a place which harboured a set of people who gloried to destroy the peace of their fellow-creatures.
To make the happiness of the friendly party more perfectly complete, the Baron informed Sir Philip and Lady de Morney that he hoped very soon to procure a pardon for Edwin and Madeline, and to be able to restore them to their protection.
Preparations for the marriage very soon began, the Baron humourously observing, that, till his son was again deprived of his freedom, there would be no knowing how to secure, or what to do with him, and declaring he should be very glad to delegate the care of him to one whom he had no doubt would supply his place much to the advantage of the charge he was ready and willing to give up.
Every appendage, that wealth could purchase,—rank require,—or youth and ambition wish to possess,—was liberally provided to grace the nuptials of Walter Fitzosbourne and the happy Roseline de Morney.
Ah! how different were the feelings,—how delightful the prospects of the intended bride, on this occasion, to what they had been on a former one, when she prepared with such agonizing terrors to give her hand to the Baron!—yet, though she could now think of approaching the altar without reluctance, she could not entirely divest herself of those timid fears which every gentle and virtuous female must experience when she recollects the number of new duties upon which she is going to enter, and that, from the moment she becomes a wife, her happiness, no longer dependent on herself or parents, rests only on the man to whom she has given her hand.
Walter seemed to tread on air; he was all vivacity and joy, and appeared to have assumed a new character. The world, and every thing belonging to it, wore a different aspect:—all, all was charming. He wondered how he could ever have felt disgust, or cherished discontent. To his father he was attentive and affectionate,—to his friends cordial and complacent,—to his Roseline all that an affectionate lover could or ought to be.
Albert was almost as happy and joyous as his master. The Baron, serene, grateful, and contented, while Sir Philip and Lady de Morney, who found their own consequence and comforts so much increased by this fortunate and splendid alliance, united in blessing the hour which sent their intended son-in-law a prisoner to Bungay-castle.
At length the happy day arrived which was appointed for the celebration of these long expected nuptials. We presume that the morning, to the world in general, was exactly like what other mornings had been, and that the sun shone without any perceptible brilliancy being added to its rays, except in the eyes of the now happy lovers.
The company assembled in the breakfast-room, and for some time waited for Roseline. She soon made her appearance, led by her beloved Walter, who had stolen unobserved to the chamber-door of his mistress, to chide her for so long delaying his happiness. On this occasion he was splendidly attired, and the bride, elegantly but simply dressed, wanted not the borrowed aid of ornament, but, arrayed in maiden bashfulness and artless purity, appeared all native loveliness.
As she received the congratulations of her friends, a tear, which stole from her expressive eye as it trembled to escape, appeared to spotless harbinger of gratified affection, struggling to conquer the becoming fears of unaffected modesty.
As soon as breakfast was over, they were accompanied to the chapel of the nunnery by a numerous train of friends and dependents. On their arrival, they were met by the Lady Abbess, the venerable and worthy Father Anselm, and almost all the inhabitants of the nunnery, who were allowed to assemble in the chapel on this joyous occasion, while every face wore the appearance of cheerfulness.
A select party went back with them to the castle, where all who chose were permitted to partake of the happiness, and share in the social satisfaction which universally prevailed.
Mutual congratulations and good wishes were exchanged. Sir Philip and Lady de Morney, happy as they were in the completion of their ambition, could not restrain the sigh of heart-felt regret at the thoughts of soon being separated from their beloved daughter.
Roseline was some time before she recovered her usual serenity, till Edeliza, on observing her shed a tear as she looked at her mother, said to her, in a whisper,—"I cannot imagine, my dear sister, why you should weep. I do not think I should be so dejected if I were married to De Willows,—though he never said half so many fine things to me as the young Baron has done to you."
Roseline, smiling, pressed the hand of her sister, and, returning her whisper, assured her she was indeed the most enviable of her sex:— but (added she) it requires more fortitude than I possess to support such happiness as mine with equanimity and composure; and the natural regret I cannot help feeling at leaving this place, and soon being separated from the best and tenderest of mothers, convinces me that Providence never intended we should enjoy bliss without alloy."
The next day the party sat off in new and splendid carriages, attended by a numerous retinue of servants, for the Baron's castle in the North of England. Their grand cavalcade brought a number of people to take a farewell look of the lovely bride, whose departure was generally regretted; and she was followed by the good wishes of all who ever had the pleasure of enjoying her society.
Sir Philip and Lady de Morney, her two sisters, De Willows, De Clavering, and Hugh Camelford accompanied her. Audrey had likewise the honour of attending her lady as fille de chambre, and never felt herself of such infinite consequence as she did when handed into the travelling carriage by the Baron's gentleman, who did her the honour to assist in packing her up to the chin amidst the boxes and luggage entrusted to her care.
The party travelled slowly and pleasantly, stopping to see every thing on their route that was worthy observation; and, as they were now in the humour to be easily pleased, they were consequently amused and gratified with almost every thing they saw.—It is a kind of humour so extremely convenient, that I hope we shall be excused for recommending the adoption of it to travellers of all countries and denominations,—good humour, and serenity of mind, being the best companions at home, are equally eligible to carry with us when we go abroad.
On their arrival at Fitzosbourne-castle, they received a considerable increase to their happiness by meeting Edwin and Madeline in perfect health and good spirits.—Sir Philip and Lady de Morney's cup of joy was filled to the brim, when they found themselves folded in the arms of their long absent children, for whole lives they had so often, and indeed at this very moment inwardly trembled.
The happy bride of the exulting Walter felt such a torrent of added felicity, on being folded in the arms of her brother and Madeline, that she was very near fainting. Observing this, the Baron, to call off their attention, desired them to permit him to come in for some share of their embraces, and in his turn to welcome them to Fitzosbourne-castle. This had the effect it was designed to produce, and the cordial welcome every one received from the Baron gave additional satisfaction to the hours thus marked with joy, happiness, and love.
After they had taken some refreshment, Edwin surprised them all by approaching the Baron, and in the most submissive manner begging him to pardon the liberty he had taken in introducing a guest to the castle, whom, as yet, he knew not of being there,—a guest old and weak, but who was, he hoped, slowly recovering from an attack of illness so severe, as to have threatened his life, and which, in all probability, would have terminated his mortal existence, but for the unremitting attention he received from the Baron's domestics.
"No apology is necessary upon such an occasion, (said the Baron.) Had my people been wanting in care to any one who required their assistance, I should have instantly dismissed them.—When may I be introduced to your friend? (added he.)—I am impatient to assure him that this house, and all that it contains, are much at his service."
"Pray, my dear Edwin, (said Lady de Morney,) who is the person for whom you have ventured to tax the Baron's hospitality thus largely, and for whom you appear so much interested?"
"The father of this lady, (replied he, taking the hand of Madeline, and leading her to his mother.)—To her I will refer you for an account of our meeting, and the revolution it has fortunately produced in our favour.
Madeline was instantly called upon to gratify the curiosity of the company, and, without any delay, informed them, that Edwin and herself having one day agreed to take a ramble, they told the people with whom they lodged that they should not return till the evening.
Disguising themselves more than usual, so as to avoid the possibility of being discovered, they sat off; and, being tempted by the extreme fineness of the day, wandered till they came to the great road which led to a large town, not five miles distant.
"In fact, (said the blushing narrator,) my dear Edwin, was grown weary of solitude, and wished perhaps to see more faces than those which he met in the obscure little cottage to which we were confined."
Every one smiled,—Edwin looked confused,—and Madeline thus proceeded.
"We had not walked more than half a mile in the great road, before the number of people we met, and the curiosity our strange appearance excited, determined us to choose a more private walk; but, just as we were going to turn into a lane which led to a neighbouring village, our attention was caught, and our design prevented by a carriage being overturned within a hundred paces of us.
"The horses, proving restive, had drawn it up a high bank, which occasioned the accident. One of the servants, seeing Edwin, beckened him, and begged him to assist in the lifting it up, and liberating his master from his perilous situation. He immediately ran off, telling me to sit down on the bank till his return.
"Thinking, however, that I might possibly be of some service, I walked slowly forwards; but guess my terror, when, just as we arrived at the carriage, they were dragging from it a man to all appearance dead.
"I instantly flew to lend my assistance; but no sooner did I distinguish his person, than I was nearly as lifeless as himself.—It was my father,—my father dying on the road! The sight, however terrifying to my fears and torturing to my feelings, gave me strength, and inspired me with fortitude to help in preserving the life of the author of my being.
"I took an opportunity to inform my dear Edwin who it was that claimed our care and attention. After chafing his temples, and rubbing his emaciated hands, some faint signs of life reanimated our endeavours.
"We found, by the conversation of the servants, that their master had been recommended to try what change of air and travelling might do, as medicine had failed in removing a disease which had long preyed upon his constitution, and which had been increased by some domestic sorrow.
"Alas! of that sorrow I knew myself to be the cause, and the tears, which I shed upon his almost lifeless hand, as I saw him extended at my feet, atoned I hope, in some measure, for the grief I had inflicted.
"When life was more perfectly restored, we moved him upon a grass plat, till the carriage and horses could be got ready.—He took no notice of any one, and appeared to be totally insensible of the accident, and of every thing around him.—This at once determined us to intrude on the Baron's goodness, and convey him to this castle.