The young men of Baron Fitz-Owen’s house were recommended particularlyto the Regent’s notice. Master Robert was knighted, with several otheryoung men of family, who distinguished themselves by their spirit andactivity upon every occasion. The youth were daily employed in warlikeexercises, and frequent actions; and made their first essay in arms insuch a manner as to bring into notice all that deserved it. Various abut all their contrivances recoiled upon themselves, and broughtincrease of honour upon Edmund’s head; he distinguished himself uponso many occasions, that Sir Robert himself began to pay him more thanordinary regard, to the infinite mortification of his kinsmen andrelations. They laid many schemes against him, but none took effect.
[From this place the characters in the manuscript are effaced by time and damp. Here and there some sentences are legible, but not sufficient to pursue the thread of the story. Mention is made of several actions in which the young men were engaged—that Edmund distinguished himself by intrepidity in action; by gentleness, humanity and modesty in the cessations—that he attracted the notice of every person of observation, and also that he received personal commendation from the Regent.]
[The following incidents are clear enough to be transcribed; but the beginning of the next succeeding pages is obliterated. However, we may guess at the beginning by what remains.]
As soon as the cabal met in Sir Robert’s tent, Mr. Wenlock thus began:—“You see, my friends, that every attempt we make to humble this upstart, turns into applause, and serves only to raise his pride still higher. Something must be done, or his praise will go home before us, at our own expence; and we shall seem only soils to set off his glories. Any thing would I give to the man who should execute our vengeance upon him.”
“Stop there, cousin Wenlock,” said Sir Robert; “though I think Edmund proud and vain-glorious, and would join in any scheme to humble him, and make him know himself, I will not suffer any man to use such base methods to effect it. Edmund is brave; and it is beneath an Englishman to revenge himself by unworthy means; if any such are used, I will be the first man to bring the guilty to justice; and if I hear another word to this purpose, I will inform my brother William, who will acquaint Edmund with your mean intentions.” Upon this the cabal drew back, and Mr. Wenlock protested that he meant no more than to mortify his pride, and make him know his proper station. Soon after Sir Robert withdrew, and they resumed their deliberations.
Then spoke Thomas Hewson: “There is a party to be sent out to-morrow night, to intercept a convoy of provisions for the relief of Rouen; I will provoke Mr. Edmund to make one of this party, and when he is engaged in the action, I and my companions will draw off, and leave him to the enemy, who I trust will so handle him, that you shall no more be troubled with him.”
“This will do,” said Mr. Wenlock; “but let it be kept from my two cousins, and only known to ourselves; if they offer to be of the party, I will persuade them off it. And you, Thomas, if you bring this scheme to a conclusion, may depend upon my eternal gratitude.”
“And mine,” said Markham; and so said all. The next day the affair was publicly mentioned; and Hewson, as he promised, provoked Edmund to the trial. Several young men of family offered themselves; among the rest, Sir Robert, and his brother William. Mr. Wenlock persuaded them not to go, and set the danger of the enterprize in the strongest colours. At last Sir Robert complained of the tooth-ache, and was confined to his tent. Edmund waited on him; and judging by the ardour of his own courage of that of his patron, thus bespoke him:—“I am greatly concerned, dear Sir, that we cannot have your company at night; but as I know what you will suffer in being absent, I would beg the favour of you to let me use your arms and device, and I will promise not to disgrace them.”
“No, Edmund, I cannot consent to that: I thank you for your noble offer, and will remember it to your advantage; but I cannot wear honours of another man’s getting. You have awakened me to a sense of my duty: I will go with you, and contend with you for glory; and William shall do the same.”
In a few hours they were ready to set out. Wenlock and Markham, and their dependants, found themselves engaged in honour to go upon an enterprize they never intended; and set out, with heavy hearts, to join the party. They marched in silence in the horrors of a dark night, and wet roads; they met the convoy where they expected, and a sharp engagement ensued. The victory was some time doubtful; but the moon rising on the backs of the English, gave them the advantage. They saw the disposition of their enemies, and availed themselves of it. Edmund advanced the foremost of the party; he drew out the leader on the French side; he slew him. Mr. William pressed forward to assist his friend; Sir Robert, to defend his brother; Wenlock, and Markham, from shame to stay behind.
Thomas Hewson and his associates drew back on their side; the French perceived it, and pursued the advantage. Edmund pushed them in front; the young nobles all followed him; they broke through the detachment, and stopped the waggons. The officer who commanded the party, encouraged them to go on; the defeat was soon complete, and the provisions carried in triumph to the English camp.
Edmund was presented to the Regent as the man to whom the victory was chiefly owing. Not a tongue presumed to move itself against him; even malice and envy were silenced.
“Approach, young man,” said the Regent, “that I may confer upon you thehonour of knighthood, which you have well deserved.”Mr. Wenlock could no longer forbear speaking—“Knighthood,” said he,“is an order belonging to gentlemen, it cannot be conferred on apeasant.”
“What say you, sir!” returned the Regent; “is this youth a peasant?”
“He is,” said Wenlock; “let him deny it if he can.”
Edmund, with a modest bow, replied, “It is true indeed I am a peasant, and this honour is too great for me; I have only done my duty.”
The Duke of York, whose pride of birth equalled that of any man living or dead, sheathed his sword immediately. “Though,” said he, “I cannot reward you as I intended, I will take care that you shall have a large share in the spoils of this night; and, I declare publicly, that you stand first in the list of gallant men in this engagement.”
Thomas Hewson and his associates made a poor figure in their return; they were publicly reproved for their backwardness. Hewson was wounded in body and more in mind, for the bad success of his ill-laid design. He could not hold up his head before Edmund; who, unconscious of their malice, administered every kind of comfort to them. He spoke in their behalf to the commanding officer, imputing their conduct to unavoidable accidents. He visited them privately; he gave them a part of the spoils allotted to himself; by every act of valour and courtesy he strove to engage those hearts that hated, envied, and maligned him: But where hatred arises from envy of superior qualities, every display of those qualities increases the cause from whence it arises.
[Another pause ensues here.]
The young nobles and gentlemen who distinguished Edmund were prevented from raising him to preferment by the insinuations of Wenlock and his associates, who never failed to set before them his low descent, and his pride and arrogance in presuming to rank with gentlemen.
[Here the manuscript is not legible for several pages. There is mention, about this time, of the death of the Lady Fitz-Owen, but not the cause.]
Wenlock rejoiced to find that his schemes took effect, and that they should be recalled at the approach of winter. The Baron was glad of a pretence to send for them home; for he could no longer endure the absence of his children, after the loss of their mother.
[The manuscript is again defaced for many leaves; at length the letters become more legible, and the remainder of it is quite perfect.]
From the time the young men returned from France, the enemies of Edmund employed their utmost abilities to ruin him in the Baron’s opinion, and get him dismissed from the family. They insinuated a thousand things against him, that happened, as they said, during his residence in France, and therefore could not be known to his master; but when the Baron privately enquired of his two elder sons, he found there was no truth in their reports. Sir Robert, though he did not love him, scorned to join in untruths against him. Mr. William spoke of him with the warmth of fraternal affection. The Baron perceived that his kinsmen disliked Edmund; but his own good heart hindered him from seeing the baseness of theirs. It is said, that continual dropping will wear away a stone; so did their incessant reports, by insensible degrees, produce a coolness in his patron’s behaviour towards him. If he behaved with manly spirit, it was misconstrued into pride and arrogance; his generosity was imprudence; his humility was hypocrisy, the better to cover his ambition. Edmund bore patiently all the indignities that were thrown upon him; and, though he felt them severely in his bosom, scorned to justify his conduct at the expence even of his enemies. Perhaps his gentle spirit might at length have sunk under this treatment, but providence interposed in his behalf; and, by seemingly accidental circumstances, conducted him imperceptibly towards the crisis of his fate.
Father Oswald, who had been preceptor to the young men, had a strong affection for Edmund, from a thorough knowledge of his heart; he saw through the mean artifices that were used to undermine him in his patron’s favour; he watched their machinations, and strove to frustrate their designs.
This good man used frequently to walk out with Edmund; they conversed upon various subjects; and the youth would lament to him the unhappiness of his situation, and the peculiar circumstances that attended him. The father, by his wholesome advice, comforted his drooping heart, and confirmed him in his resolution of bearing unavoidable evils with patience and fortitude, from the consciousness of his own innocence, and the assurance of a future and eternal reward.
One day, as they were walking in a wood near the castle, Edmund asked the father, what meant those preparations for building, the cutting down trees, and burning of bricks?
“What,” said Oswald, “have you not heard that my Lord is going to build a new apartment on the west side of the castle?”
“And why,” said Edmund, “should my Lord be at that expence when there is one on the east side that is never occupied?”
“That apartment,” said the friar, “you must have observed is always shut up.”
“I have observed it often,” said Edmund; “but I never presumed to ask any questions about it.”
“You had then,” said Oswald, “less curiosity, and more discretion, than is common at your age.”
“You have raised my curiosity,” said Edmund; “and, if it be not improper, I beg of you to gratify it.”
“We are alone,” said Oswald, “and I am so well assured of your prudence, that I will explain this mystery in some degree to you.”
“You must know, that apartment was occupied by the last Lord Lovel when he was a batchelor. He married in his father’s lifetime, who gave up his own apartment to him, and offered to retire to this himself; but the son would not permit him; he chose to sleep here, rather than in any other. He had been married about three months, when his father, the old lord, died of a fever. About twelve months after his marriage, he was called upon to attend the King, Henry the Fourth, on an expedition into Wales, whither he was attended by many of his dependants. He left his lady big with child, and full of care and anxiety for his safety and return.
“After the King had chastised the rebels, and obtained the victory, the Lord Lovel was expected home every day; various reports were sent home before him; one messenger brought an account of his health and safety; soon after another came with bad news, that he was slain in battle. His kinsman, Sir Walter Lovel, came here on a visit to comfort the Lady; and he waited to receive his kinsman at his return. It was he that brought the news of the sad event of the battle to the Lady Lovel.
“She fainted away at the relation; but, when she revived, exerted the utmost resolution; saying, it was her duty to bear this dreadful stroke with Christian fortitude and patience, especially in regard to the child she went with, the last remains of her beloved husband, and the undoubted heir of a noble house. For several days she seemed an example of patience and resignation; but then, all at once, she renounced them, and broke out into passionate and frantic exclamations; she said, that her dear lord was basely murdered; that his ghost had appeared to her, and revealed his fate. She called upon Heaven and earth to revenge her wrongs; saying, she would never cease complaining to God, and the King, for vengeance and justice.
“Upon this, Sir Walter told the servants that Lady Lovel was distracted, from grief for the death of her Lord; that his regard for her was as strong as ever; and that, if she recovered, he would himself be her comforter, and marry her. In the mean time she was confined in this very apartment, and in less than a month the poor Lady died. She lies buried in the family vault in St. Austin’s church in the village. Sir Walter took possession of the castle, and all the other estates, and assumed the title of Lord Lovel.
“Soon after, it was reported that the castle was haunted, and that the ghosts of Lord and Lady Lovel had been seen by several of the servants. Whoever went into this apartment were terrified by uncommon noises, and strange appearances; at length this apartment was wholly shut up, and the servants were forbid to enter it, or to talk of any thing relating to it: However, the story did not stop here; it was whispered about, that the new Lord Lovel was so disturbed every night, that he could not sleep in quiet; and, being at last tired of the place, he sold the castle and estate of his ancestors, to his brother-in-law the Lord Fitz-Owen, who now enjoys it, and left this country.”
“All this is news to me,” said Edmund; “but, father, tell me what grounds there were for the lady’s suspicion that her lord died unfairly?”
“Alas!” said Oswald, “that is only known to God. There were strange thoughts in the minds of many at that time; I had mine; but I will not disclose them, not even to you. I will not injure those who may be innocent; and I leave it to Providence, who will doubtless, in its own best time and manner, punish the guilty. But let what I have told you be as if you had never heard it.”
“I thank you for these marks of your esteem and confidence,” said Edmund; “be assured that I will not abuse them; nor do I desire to pry into secrets not proper to be revealed. I entirely approve your discretion, and acquiesce in your conclusion, that Providence will in its own time vindicate its ways to man; if it were not for that trust, my situation would be insupportable. I strive earnestly to deserve the esteem and favour of good men; I endeavour to regulate my conduct so as to avoid giving offence to any man; but I see, with infinite pain, that it is impossible for me to gain these points.”
“I see it too, with great concern,” said Oswald; “and every thing that I can say and do in your favour is misconstrued; and, by seeking to do you service, I lose my own influence. But I will never give my sanction to acts of injustice, nor join to oppress innocence. My dear child, put your trust in God: He who brought light out of darkness, can bring good out of evil.”
“I hope and trust so,” said Edmund; “but, father, if my enemies should prevail—if my lord should believe their stories against me, and I should be put out of the house with disgrace, what will become of me? I have nothing but my character to depend upon; if I lose that, I lose every thing; and I see they seek no less than my ruin.”
“Trust in my lord’s honour and justice,” replied Oswald; “he knows your virtue, and he is not ignorant of their ill-will towards you.”
“I know my lord’s justice too well to doubt it,” said Edmund; “but would it not be better to rid him of this trouble, and his family of an incumbrance? I would gladly do something for myself, but cannot without my lord’s recommendation; and, such is my situation, that I fear the asking for a dismission would be accounted base ingratitude; beside, when I think of leaving this house, my heart saddens at the thought, and tells me I cannot be happy out of it; yet I think I could return to a peasant’s life with cheerfulness, rather than live in a palace under disdain and contempt.”
“Have patience a little longer, my son,” said Oswald; “I will think of some way to serve you, and to represent your grievances to my lord, without offence to either—perhaps the causes may be removed. Continue to observe the same irreproachable conduct; and be assured that Heaven will defend your innocence, and defeat the unjust designs of your enemies. Let us now return home.”
About a week after this conference, Edmund walked out in the fields ruminating on the disagreeable circumstances of his situation. Insensible of the time, he had been out several hours without perceiving how the day wore away, when he heard himself called by name several times; looking backward, he saw his friend Mr. William, and hallooed to him. He came running towards him; and, leaping over the style, stood still a while to recover his breath.
“What is the matter, sir?” said Edmund; “your looks bespeak some tidings of importance.”
With a look of tender concern and affection, the youth pressed his hand and spoke—
“My dear Edmund, you must come home with me directly; your old enemies have united to ruin you with my father; my brother Robert has declared that he thinks there will be no peace in our family till you are dismissed from it, and told my father, he hoped he would not break with his kinsmen rather than give up Edmund.”
“But what do they lay to my charge?” said Edmund.
“I cannot rightly understand,” answered William, “for they make a great mystery of it; something of great consequence, they say; but they will not tell me what: However, my father has told them that they must bring their accusation before your face, and he will have you answer them publicly. I have been seeking you this hour, to inform you of this, that you might be prepared to defend yourself against your accusers.”
“God reward you, sir,” said Edmund, “for all your goodness to me! I see they are determined to ruin me if possible: I shall be compelled to leave the castle; but, whatever becomes of me, be assured you shall have no cause to blush for your kindness and partiality to your Edmund.”
“I know it, I am sure of it,” said William; “and here I swear to you, as Jonathan did to David, I beseech Heaven to bless me, as my friendship to you shall be steady and inviolable!”
“Only so long as I shall deserve so great a blessing,” interrupted Edmund.
“I know your worth and honour,” continued William; “and such is my confidence in your merit, that I firmly believe Heaven designs you for something extraordinary; and I expect that some great and unforeseen event will raise you to the rank and station to which you appear to belong: Promise me, therefore, that whatever may be your fate you will preserve the same friendship for me that I bear to you.”
Edmund was so much affected that he could not answer but in broken sentences.
“Oh my friend, my master! I vow, I promise, my heart promises!”
He kneeled down with clasped hands, and uplifted eyes. William kneeled by him, and they invoked the Supreme to witness to their friendship, and implored His blessing upon it. They then rose up and embraced each other, while tears of cordial affection bedewed their cheeks.
As soon as they were able to speak, Edmund conjured his friend not to expose himself to the displeasure of his family out of kindness to him.
“I submit to the will of Heaven,” said he; “I wait with patience its disposal of me; if I leave the castle, I will find means to inform you of my fate and fortunes.”
“I hope,” said William, “that things may yet be accommodated; but do not take any resolution, let us act as occasions arise.”
In this manner these amiable youths conferred, till they arrived at the castle. The Baron was sitting in the great hall, on a high chair with a footstep before, with the state and dignity of a judge; before him stood Father Oswald, as pleading the cause for himself and Edmund. Round the Baron’s chair stood his eldest son and his kinsmen, with their principal domestics. The old servant, Joseph, at some distance, with his head leaning forward, as listening with the utmost attention to what passed. Mr. William approached the chair. “My Lord, I have found Edmund, and brought him to answer for himself.”
“You have done well,” said the Baron. “Edmund, come hither; you are charged with some indiscretions, for I cannot properly call them crimes: I am resolved to do justice between you and your accusers; I shall therefore hear you as well as them; for no man ought to be condemned unheard.”
“My lord,” said Edmund, with equal modesty and intrepidity, “I demand my trial; if I shall be found guilty of any crimes against my Benefactor, let me be punished with the utmost rigour; But if, as I trust, no such charge can be proved against me, I know your goodness too well to doubt that you will do justice to me, as well as to others; and if it should so happen that by the misrepresentations of my enemies (who have long sought my ruin privately, and now avow it publicly), if by their artifices your lordship should be induced to think me guilty, I would submit to your sentence in silence, and appeal to another tribunal.”
“See,” said Mr. Wenlock, “the confidence of the fellow! he already supposes that my lord must be in the wrong if he condemns him; and then this meek creature will appeal to another tribunal. To whose will he appeal? I desire he may be made to explain himself.”
“That I will immediately,” said Edmund, “without being compelled. I only meant to appeal to Heaven that best knows my innocence.”
“‘Tis true,” said the Baron, “and no offence to any one; man can only judge by appearances, but Heaven knows the heart; Let every one of you bear this in mind, that you may not bring a false accusation, nor justify yourselves by concealing the truth. Edmund, I am informed that Oswald and you have made very free with me and my family, in some of your conversations; you were heard to censure me for the absurdity of building a new apartment on the west side of the castle, when there was one on the east side uninhabited. Oswald said, that apartment was shut up because it was haunted; that some shocking murder had been committed there; adding many particulars concerning Lord Lovel’s family, such as he could not know the truth of, and, if he had known, was imprudent to reveal. But, further, you complained of ill-treatment here; and mentioned an intention to leave the castle, and seek your fortune elsewhere. I shall examine into all these particulars in turn. At present I desire you, Edmund, to relate all that you can remember of the conversation that passed between you and Oswald in the wood last Monday.”
“Good God!” said Edmund, “is it possible that any person could put such a construction upon so innocent a conversation?”
“Tell me then,” said the Baron, “the particulars of it.”
“I will, my lord, as nearly as my memory will allow me.” Accordingly he related most of the conversation that passed in the wood; but, in the part that concerned the family of Lovel, he abbreviated as much as possible. Oswald’s countenance cleared up, for he had done the same before Edmund came. The Baron called to his eldest son.
“You hear, Sir Robert, what both parties say; I have questioned them separately; neither of them knew what the other would answer, yet their accounts agree almost to a word.”
“I confess they do so,” answered Sir Robert; “but, sir, it is very bold and presuming for them to speak of our family affairs in such a manner; if my uncle, Lord Lovel, should come to know it, he would punish them severely; and, if his honour is reflected upon, it becomes us to resent and to punish it.” Here Mr. Wenlock broke out into passion, and offered to swear to the truth of his accusation.
“Be silent, Dick,” said the Baron; “I shall judge for myself. I protest,” said he to Sir Robert, “I never heard so much as Oswald has now told me concerning the deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel; I think it is best to let such stories alone till they die away of themselves. I had, indeed, heard of an idle story of the east apartment’s being haunted, when first I came hither, and my brother advised me to shut it up till it should be forgotten; but what has now been said, has suggested a thought that may make that apartment useful in future. I have thought of a punishment for Edmund that will stop the mouth of his accusers for the present; and, as I hope, will establish his credit with every body. Edmund, will you undertake this adventure for me?”
“What adventure, my Lord,” said Edmund? “There is nothing I would not undertake to shew my gratitude and fidelity to you. As to my courage, I would shew that at the expence of my malicious accusers, if respect to my Lord’s blood did not tie up my hands; as I am situated, I beg it may be put to the proof in whatever way is most for my master’s service.”
“That is well said,” cried the Baron; “as to your enemies, I am thinking how to separate you from them effectually; of that I shall speak hereafter. I am going to try Edmund’s courage; he shall sleep three nights in the east apartment, that he may testify to all whether it be haunted or not; afterwards I will have that apartment set in order, and my eldest son shall take it for his own; it will spare me some expence, and answer my purpose as well, or better; Will you consent, Edmund?”
“With all my heart, my Lord,” said Edmund, “I have not wilfully offended God or man; I have, therefore, nothing to fear.”
“Brave boy!” said my Lord; “I am not deceived in you, nor shall you be deceived in your reliance on me. You shall sleep in that apartment to-night, and to-morrow I will have some private talk with you. Do you, Oswald, go with me; I want to have some conversation with you. The rest of you, retire to your studies and business; I will meet you at dinner.”
Edmund retired to his own chamber, and Oswald was shut up with the Baron; he defended Edmund’s cause and his own, and laid open as much as he knew of the malice and designs of his enemies. The Baron expressed much concern at the untimely deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel, and desired Oswald to be circumspect in regard to what he had to say of the circumstances attending them; adding, that he was both innocent and ignorant of any treachery towards either of them. Oswald excused himself for his communications to Edmund, saying, they fell undesignedly into the subject, and that he mentioned it in confidence to him only.
The Baron sent orders to the young men to come to dinner; but they refused to meet Edmund at table; accordingly he ate in the steward’s apartment. After dinner, the Baron tried to reconcile his kinsmen to Edmund; but found it impossible. They saw their designs were laid open; and, judging of him by themselves, thought it impossible to forgive or be forgiven. The Baron ordered them to keep in separate apartments; he took his eldest son for his own companion, as being the most reasonable of the malcontents; and ordered his kinsmen to keep their own apartment, with a servant to watch their motions. Mr. William had Oswald for his companion. Old Joseph was bid to attend on Edmund; to serve him at supper; and, at the hour of nine, to conduct him to the haunted apartment. Edmund desired that he might have a light and his sword, lest his enemies should endeavour to surprise him. The Baron thought his request reasonable, and complied with it.
There was a great search to find the key of the apartment; at last it was discovered by Edmund, himself, among a parcel of old rusty keys in a lumber room. The Baron sent the young men their suppers to their respective apartments. Edmund declined eating, and desired to be conducted to his apartment. He was accompanied by most of the servants to the door of it; they wished him success, and prayed for him as if he had been going to execution.
The door was with great difficulty unlocked, and Joseph gave Edmund a lighted lamp, and wished him a good night; he returned his good wishes to them all with the utmost cheerfulness, took the key on the inside of the door, and dismissed them.
He then took a survey of his chamber; the furniture, by long neglect, was decayed and dropping to pieces; the bed was devoured by the moths, and occupied by the rats, who had built their nests there with impunity for many generations. The bedding was very damp, for the rain had forced its way through the ceiling; he determined, therefore, to lie down in his clothes. There were two doors on the further side of the room, with keys in them; being not at all sleepy, he resolved to examine them; he attempted one lock, and opened it with ease; he went into a large dining-room, the furniture of which was in the same tattered condition; out of this was a large closet with some books in it, and hung round with coats of arms, with genealogies and alliances of the house of Lovel; he amused himself here some minutes, and then returned into the bed-chamber.
He recollected the other door, and resolved to see where it led to; the key was rusted into the lock, and resisted his attempts; he set the lamp on the ground, and, exerting all his strength, opened the door, and at the same instant the wind of it blew out the lamp, and left him in utter darkness. At the same moment he heard a hollow rustling noise, like that of a person coming through a narrow passage. Till this moment not one idea of fear had approached the mind of Edmund; but, just then, all the concurrent circumstances of his situation struck upon his heart, and gave him a new and disagreeable sensation. He paused a while; and, recollecting himself, cried out aloud. “What should I fear? I have not wilfully offended God or man; why then should I doubt protection? But I have not yet implored the divine assistance; how then can I expect it!” Upon this, he kneeled down and prayed earnestly, resigning himself wholly to the will of heaven; while he was yet speaking, his courage returned, and he resumed his usual confidence; again he approached the door from whence the noise proceeded; he thought he saw a glimmering light upon a staircase before him. “If,” said he, “this apartment is haunted, I will use my endeavours to discover the cause of it; and if the spirit appears visibly, I will speak to it.”
He was preparing to descend the staircase, when he heard several knocks at the door by which he first entered the room; and, stepping backward, the door was clapped to with great violence. Again fear attacked him, but he resisted it, and boldly cried out, “Who is there?”
A voice at the outer door answered, “It’s I; Joseph, your friend!”
“What do you want?” said Edmund.
“I have brought you some wood to make a fire,” said Joseph.
“I thank you kindly,” said Edmund; “but my lamp is gone out; I will try to find the door, however.”
After some trouble he found, and opened it; and was not sorry to see his friend Joseph, with a light in one hand, a flagon of beer in the other, and a fagot upon his shoulder. “I come,” said the good old man, “to bring you something to keep up your spirits; the evening is cold; I know this room wants airing; and beside that, my master, I think your present undertaking requires a little assistance.”
“My good friend,” said Edmund, “I never shall be able to deserve or requite your kindness to me.”
“My dear sir, you always deserved more than I could do for you; and I think I shall yet live to see you defeat the designs of your enemies, and acknowledge the services of your friends.”
“Alas!” said Edmund, “I see little prospect of that!”
“I see,” said Joseph, “something that persuades me you are designed for great things; and I perceive that things are working about to some great end: have courage, my Master, my heart beats strangely high upon your account!”
“You make me smile,” said Edmund.
“I am glad to see it, sir; may you smile all the rest of your life!”
“I thank your honest affection,” returned Edmund, “though it is too partial to me. You had better go to bed, however; if it is known that you visit me here, it will be bad for us both.”
“So I will presently; but, please God, I will come here again to-morrow night, when all the family are a-bed; and I will tell you some things that you never yet heard.”
“But pray tell me,” said Edmund, “where does that door lead to?”
“Upon a passage that ends in a staircase that leads to the lower rooms; and there is likewise a door out of that passage into the dining-room.”
“And what rooms are there below stairs,” said Edmund?
“The same as above,” replied he.
“Very well; then I wish you a good night, we will talk further to-morrow.”
“Aye, to-morrow night; and in this place, my dear master.”
“Why do you call me your master? I never was, nor ever can be, your master.”
“God only knows that,” said the good old man; “good-night, and heaven bless you!”
“Good-night, my worthy friend!”
Joseph withdrew, and Edmund returned to the other door, and attempted several times to open it in vain; his hands were benumbed and tired; at length he gave over. He made a fire in the chimney, placed the lamp on a table, and opened one of the window-shutters to admit the day-light; he then recommended himself to the Divine protection, and threw himself upon the bed; he presently fell asleep, and continued in that state, till the sun saluted him with his orient beams through the window he had opened.
As soon as he was perfectly awake, he strove to recollect his dreams. He thought that he heard people coming up the staircase that he had a glimpse of; that the door opened, and there entered a warrior, leading a lady by the hand, who was young and beautiful, but pale and wan; The man was dressed in complete armour, and his helmet down. They approached the bed; they undrew the curtains. He thought the man said, “Is this our child?” The woman replied, “It is; and the hour approaches that he shall be known for such.” They then separated, and one stood on each side of the bed; their hands met over his head, and they gave him a solemn benediction. He strove to rise and pay them his respects, but they forbad him; and the lady said, “Sleep in peace, oh my Edmund! for those who are the true possessors of this apartment are employed in thy preservation; sleep on, sweet hope of a house that is thought past hope!”
Upon this, they withdrew, and went out at the same door by which they entered, and he heard them descend the stairs. After this, he followed a funeral as chief mourner; he saw the whole procession, and heard the ceremonies performed. He was snatched away from this mournful scene to one of a contrary kind, a stately feast, at which he presided; and he heard himself congratulated as a husband, and a father; his friend William sat by his side; and his happiness was complete. Every succeeding idea was happiness without allay; and his mind was not idle a moment till the morning sun awakened him. He perfectly remembered his dreams, and meditated on what all these things should portend. “Am I then,” said he, “not Edmund Twyford, but somebody of consequence in whose fate so many people are interested? Vain thought, that must have arisen from the partial suggestion of my two friends, Mr. William and old Joseph.”
He lay thus reflecting, when a servant knocked at his door, and told him it was past six o’clock, and that the Baron expected him to breakfast in an hour. He rose immediately; paid his tribute of thanks to heaven for its protection, and went from his chamber in high health and spirits. He walked in the garden till the hour of breakfast, and then attended the Baron.
“Good morrow, Edmund!” said he; “how have you rested in your new apartment?”
“Extremely well, my lord,” answered he.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the Baron; “but I did not know your accommodations were so bad, as Joseph tells me they are.”
“‘Tis of no consequence,” said Edmund; “if they were much worse, I could dispense with them for three nights.”
“Very well,” said the Baron; “you are a brave lad; I am satisfied with you, and will excuse the other two nights.”
“But, my lord, I will not be excused; no one shall have reason to suspect my courage; I am determined to go through the remaining nights upon many accounts.”
“That shall be as you please,” said my Lord. “I think of you as you deserve; so well, that I shall ask your advice by and by in some affairs of consequence.”
“My life and services are yours, my lord; command them freely.”
“Let Oswald be called in,” said my Lord; “he shall be one of our consultation.” He came; the servants were dismissed; and the Baron spoke as follows:
“Edmund, when first I took you into my family, it was at the request of my sons and kinsmen; I bear witness to your good behaviour, you have not deserved to lose their esteem; but, nevertheless, I have observed for some years past, that all but my son William have set their faces against you; I see their meanness, and I perceive their motives: but they are, and must be, my relations; and I would rather govern them by love, than fear. I love and esteem your virtues: I cannot give you up to gratify their humours. My son William has lost the affections of the rest, for that he bears to you; but he has increased my regard for him; I think myself bound in honour to him and you to provide for you; I cannot do it, as I wished, under my own roof. If you stay here, I see nothing but confusion in my family; yet I cannot put you out of it disgracefully. I want to think of some way to prefer you, that you may leave this house with honour; and I desire both of you to give me your advice in this matter. If Edmund will tell me in what way I can employ him to his own honour and my advantage, I am ready to do it; let him propose it, and Oswald shall moderate between us.”
Here he stopped; and Edmund, whose sighs almost choked him, threw himself at the Baron’s feet, and wet his hand with his tears: “Oh, my noble, generous benefactor! do you condescend to consult such a one as me upon the state of your family? does your most amiable and beloved son incur the ill-will of his brothers and kinsmen for my sake? What am I, that I should disturb the peace of this noble family? Oh, my lord, send me away directly! I should be unworthy to live, if I did not earnestly endeavour to restore your happiness. You have given me a noble education, and I trust I shall not disgrace it. If you will recommend me, and give me a character, I fear not to make my own fortune.”
The Baron wiped his eyes; “I wish to do this, my child, but in what way?”
“My lord,” said Edmund, “I will open my heart to you. I have served with credit in the army, and I should prefer a soldier’s life.”
“You please me well,” said the Baron; “I will send you to France, and give you a recommendation to the Regent; he knows you personally, and will prefer you, for my sake, and for your own merit.”
“My lord, you overwhelm me with your goodness! I am but your creature, and my life shall be devoted to your service.”
“But,” said the Baron, “how to dispose of you till the spring?”
“That,” said Oswald, “may be thought of at leisure; I am glad that you have resolved, and I congratulate you both.” The Baron put an end to the conversation by desiring Edmund to go with him into the menage to see his horses. He ordered Oswald to acquaint his son William with all that had passed, and to try to persuade the young men to meet Edmund and William at dinner.
The Baron took Edmund with him into his menage to see some horses he had lately purchased; while they were examining the beauties and defects of these noble and useful animals, Edmund declared that he preferred Caradoc, a horse he had broke himself, to any other in my lord’s stables. “Then,” said the Baron, “I will give him to you; and you shall go upon him to seek your fortune.” He made new acknowledgments for this gift, and declared he would prize it highly for the giver’s sake. “But I shall not part with you yet,” said my lord; “I will first carry all my points with these saucy boys, and oblige them to do you justice.”
“You have already done that,” said Edmund; “and I will not suffer any of your Lordship’s blood to undergo any farther humiliation upon my account. I think, with humble submission to your better judgment, the sooner I go hence the better.”
While they were speaking, Oswald came to them, and said, that the young men had absolutely refused to dine at the table, if Edmund was present. “‘Tis well,” said the Baron; “I shall find a way to punish their contumacy hereafter; I will make them know that I am the master here. Edmund and you, Oswald, shall spend the day in my apartment above stairs. William shall dine with me alone; and I will acquaint him with our determination; my son Robert, and his cabal, shall be prisoners in the great parlour. Edmund shall, according to his own desire, spend this and the following night in the haunted apartment; and this for his sake, and my own; for if I should now contradict my former orders, it would subject us both to their impertinent reflections.”
He then took Oswald aside, and charged him not to let Edmund go out of his sight; for if he should come in the way of those implacable enemies, he trembled for the consequences. He then walked back to the stables, and the two friends returned into the house.
They had a long conversation on various subjects; in the course of it, Edmund acquainted Oswald with all that had passed between him and Joseph the preceding night, the curiosity he had raised in him, and his promise to gratify it the night following.
“I wish,” said Oswald, “you would permit me to be one of your party.”
“How can that be?” said Edmund; “we shall be watched, perhaps; and, if discovered, what excuse can you make for coming there? Beside, if it were known, I shall be branded with the imputation of cowardice; and, though I have borne much, I will not promise to bear that patiently.”
“Never fear,” replied Oswald, “I will speak to Joseph about it; and, after prayers are over and the family gone to bed, I will steal away from my own chamber and come to you. I am strongly interested in your affairs; and I cannot be easy unless you will receive me into your company; I will bind myself to secrecy in any manner you shall enjoin.”
“Your word is sufficient,” said Edmund; “I have as much reason to trust you, father, as any man living; I should be ungrateful to refuse you any thing in my power to grant; But suppose the apartment should really be haunted, would you have resolution enough to pursue the adventure to a discovery?”
“I hope so,” said Oswald; “but have you any reason to believe it is?”
“I have,” said Edmund; “but I have not opened my lips upon this subject to any creature but yourself. This night I purpose, if Heaven permit, to go all over the rooms; and, though I had formed this design, I will confess that your company will strengthen my resolution. I will have no reserves to you in any respect; but I must put a seal upon your lips.”
Oswald swore secrecy till he should be permitted to disclose the mysteries of that apartment; and both of them waited, in solemn expectation, the event of the approaching night.
In the afternoon Mr. William was allowed to visit his friend. An affecting interview passed between them. He lamented the necessity of Edmund’s departure; and they took a solemn leave of each other, as if they foreboded it would be long ere they should meet again.
About the same hour as the preceding evening, Joseph came to conduct Edmund to his apartment.
“You will find better accommodations than you had last night,” said he, “and all by my lord’s own order.”
“I every hour receive some new proof of his goodness,” said Edmund.
When they arrived, he found a good fire in the chamber, and a table covered with cold meats, and a flagon of strong beer.
“Sit down and get your supper, my dear Master,” said Joseph: “I must attend my Lord; but as soon as the family are gone to bed, I will visit you again.”
“Do so,” said Edmund; “but first, see Father Oswald; he has something to say to you. You may trust him, for I have no reserves to him.”
“Well, Sir, I will see him if you desire it; and I will come to you as soon as possible.” So saying, he went his way, and Edmund sat down to supper.
After a moderate refreshment, he kneeled down, and prayed with the greatest fervency. He resigned himself to the disposal of Heaven: “I am nothing,” said he, “I desire to be nothing but what thou, O Lord, pleasest to make me. If it is thy will that I should return to my former obscurity, be it obeyed with cheerfulness; and, if thou art pleased to exalt me, I will look up to thee, as the only fountain of honour and dignity.” While he prayed, he felt an enlargement of heart beyond what he had ever experienced before; all idle fears were dispersed, and his heart glowed with divine love and affiance;—he seemed raised above the world and all its pursuits. He continued wrapt up in mental devotion, till a knocking at the door obliged him to rise, and let in his two friends, who came without shoes, and on tiptoe, to visit him.
“Save you, my son!” said the friar; “you look cheerful and happy.”
“I am so, father,” said Edmund; “I have resigned myself to the disposal of Heaven, and I find my heart strengthened above what I can express.”
“Heaven be praised!” said Oswald: “I believe you are designed for great things, my son.”
“What! do you too encourage my ambition?” says Edmund; “strange concurrence of circumstances!—Sit down, my friends; and do you, my good Joseph, tell me the particulars you promised last night.” They drew their chairs round the fire, and Joseph began as follows:—
“You have heard of the untimely death of the late Lord Lovel, my noble and worthy master; perhaps you may have also heard that, from that time, this apartment was haunted. What passed the other day, when my Lord questioned you both on this head, brought all the circumstances fresh into my mind. You then said, there were suspicions that he came not fairly to his end. I trust you both, and will speak what I know of it. There was a person suspected of this murder; and whom do you think it was?”
“You must speak out,” said Oswald.
“Why then,” said Joseph, “it was the present Lord Lovel.”
“You speak my thoughts,” said Oswald; “but proceed to the proofs.”
“I will,” said Joseph.
“From the time that my lord’s death was reported, there were strange whisperings and consultations between the new lord and some of the servants; there was a deal of private business carried on in this apartment. Soon after, they gave out that my poor lady was distracted; but she threw out strong expressions that savoured nothing of madness. She said, that the ghost of her departed lord had appeared to her, and revealed the circumstances of this murder. None of the servants, but one, were permitted to see her. At this very time, Sir Walter, the new lord, had the cruelty to offer love to her; he urged her to marry him; and one of her women overheard her say, she would sooner die than give her hand to the man who caused the death of her Lord; Soon after this, we were told my Lady was dead. The Lord Lovel made a public and sumptuous funeral for her.”
“That is true,” said Oswald; “for I was a novice, and assisted at it.”
“Well,” says Joseph, “now comes my part of the story. As I was coming home from the burial, I overtook Roger our ploughman. Said he, What think you of this burying?—‘What should I think,’ said I, ‘but that we have lost the best Master and Lady that we shall ever know?’ ‘God, He knows,’ quoth Roger, ‘whether they be living or dead; but if ever I saw my Lady in my life, I saw her alive the night they say she died.’ I tried to convince him that he was mistaken; but he offered to take his oath, that the very night they said she died, he saw her come out at the garden gate into the fields; that she often stopped, like a person in pain, and then went forward again until he lost sight of her. Now it is certain that her time was out, and she expected to lie down every day; and they did not pretend that she died in child-bed. I thought upon what I heard, but nothing I said. Roger told the same story to another servant; so he was called to an account, the story was hushed up, and the foolish fellow said, he was verily persuaded it was her ghost that he saw. Now you must take notice that, from this time, they began to talk about, that this apartment was troubled; and not only this, but at last the new Lord could not sleep in quiet in his own room; and this induced him to sell the castle to his brother-in-law, and get out of this country as fast as possible. He took most of the servants away with him, and Roger among the rest. As for me, they thought I knew nothing, and so they left me behind; but I was neither blind nor deaf, though I could hear, and see, and say nothing.”
“This is a dark story,” said Oswald.
“It is so,” said Edmund; “but why should Joseph seem to think it concerns me in particular?”
“Ah, dear Sir,” said Joseph, “I must tell you, though I never uttered it to mortal man before; the striking resemblance this young man bears to my dear Lord, the strange dislike his reputed father took to him, his gentle manners, his generous heart, his noble qualities so uncommon in those of his birth and breeding, the sound of his voice—you may smile at the strength of my fancy, but I cannot put it out of my mind but that he is my own master’s son.”
At these words Edmund changed colour and trembled; he clapped his hand upon his breast, and looked up to Heaven in silence; his dream recurred to his memory, and struck upon his heart. He related it to his attentive auditors.
“The ways of Providence are wonderful,” said Oswald. “If this be so, Heaven in its own time will make it appear.”
Here a silence of several minutes ensued; when, suddenly, they were awakened from their reverie by a violent noise in the rooms underneath them. It seemed like the clashing of arms, and something seemed to fall down with violence.
They started, and Edmund rose up with a look full of resolution and intrepidity.
“I am called!” said he; “I obey the call!”
He took up a lamp, and went to the door that he had opened the night before. Oswald followed with his rosary in his hand, and Joseph last with trembling steps. The door opened with ease, and they descended the stairs in profound silence.
The lower rooms answered exactly to those above; there were two parlours and a large closet. They saw nothing remarkable in these rooms, except two pictures, that were turned with their faces to the wall. Joseph took the courage to turn them. “These,” said he, “are the portraits of my lord and lady. Father, look at this face; do you know who is like it?”
“I should think,” said Oswald, “it was done for Edmund!”
“I am,” said Edmund, “struck with the resemblance myself; but let us go on; I feel myself inspired with unusual courage. Let us open the closet door.”
Oswald stopped him short.
“Take heed,” said he, “lest the wind of the door put out the lamp. I will open this door.”
He attempted it without success; Joseph did the same, but to no purpose; Edmund gave the lamp to Joseph; he approached the door, tried the key, and it gave way to his hand in a moment.
“This adventure belongs,” said he, “to me only; that is plain—bring the lamp forward.”
Oswald repeated the paternoster, in which they all joined, and then entered the closet.
The first thing that presented itself to their view, was a complete suit of armour, that seemed to have fallen down on an heap.
“Behold!” said Edmund; “this made the noise we heard above.” They took it up, and examined it piece by piece; the inside of the breast plate was stained with blood.
“See here!” said Edmund; “what think you of this?”
“‘Tis my Lord’s armour,” said Joseph; “I know it well—here has been bloody work in this closet!”
Going forward, he stumbled over something; it was a ring with the arms of Lovel engraved upon it.
“This is my Lord’s ring,” said Joseph; “I have seen him wear it; I give it to you, sir, as the right owner; and most religiously do I believe you his son.”
“Heaven only knows that,” said Edmund; “and, if it permits, I will know who was my father before I am a day older.”
While he was speaking, he shifted his ground, and perceived that the boards rose up on the other side of the closet; upon farther examination they found that the whole floor was loose, and a table that stood over them concealed the circumstance from a casual observer.
“I perceive,” said Oswald, “that some great discovery is at hand.”
“God defend us!” said Edmund, “but I verily believe that the person that owned this armour lies buried under us.”
Upon this, a dismal hollow groan was heard, as if from underneath. A solemn silence ensued, and marks of fear were visible upon all three; the groan was thrice heard; Oswald made signs for them to kneel, and he prayed audibly, that Heaven would direct them how to act; he also prayed for the soul of the departed, that it might rest in peace. After this, he arose; but Edmund continued kneeling—he vowed solemnly to devote himself to the discovery of this secret, and the avenging the death of the person there buried. He then rose up. “It would be to no purpose,” said he, “for us to examine further now; when I am properly authorised, I will have this place opened; I trust that time is not far off.”
“I believe it,” said Oswald; “you are designed by Heaven to be its instrument in bringing this deed of darkness to light. We are your creatures; only tell us what you would have us do, and we are ready to obey your commands.”
“I only demand your silence,” said Edmund, “till I call for your evidence; and then, you must speak all you know, and all you suspect.”
“Oh,” said Joseph, “that I may but live to see that day, and I shall have lived long enough!”
“Come,” said Edmund, “let us return up stairs, and we will consult further how I shall proceed.”
So saying, he went out of the closet, and they followed him. He locked the door, and took the key out—“I will keep this,” said he, “till I have power to use it to purpose, lest any one should presume to pry into the secret of this closet. I will always carry it about me, to remind me of what I have undertaken.”
Upon this, they returned up stairs into the bed-chamber; all was still, and they heard nothing more to disturb them. “How,” said Edmund, “is it possible that I should be the son of Lord Lovel? for, however circumstances have seemed to encourage such a notion, what reason have I to believe it?”
“I am strangely puzzled about it,” said Oswald. “It seems unlikely that so good a man as Lord Lovel should corrupt the wife of a peasant, his vassal; and, especially, being so lately married to a lady with whom he was passionately in love.”
“Hold there!” said Joseph; “my lord was incapable of such an action; If Master Edmund is the son of my lord, he is also the son of my lady.”
“How can that be,” said Edmund?
“I don’t know how,” said Joseph; “but there is a person who can tell if she will; I mean Margery Twyford, who calls herself your mother.”
“You meet my thoughts,” said Edmund; “I had resolved, before you spoke, to visit her, and to interrogate her on the subject; I will ask my Lord’s permission to go this very day.”
“That is right,” said Oswald; “but be cautious and prudent in your enquiries.”
“If you,” said Edmund, “would bear me company, I should do better; she might think herself obliged to answer your questions; and, being less interested in the event, you would be more discreet in your interrogations.”
“That I will most readily,” said he; “and I will ask my lord’s permission for us both.”
“This point is well determined,” said Joseph; “I am impatient for the result; and I believe my feet will carry me to meet you whether I consent or not.”
“I am as impatient as you,” said Oswald; “but let us be silent as the grave, and let not a word or look indicate any thing knowing or mysterious.”
The daylight began to dawn upon their conference; and Edmund, observing it, begged his friends to withdraw in silence. They did so, and left Edmund to his own recollections. His thoughts were too much employed for sleep to approach him; he threw himself upon the bed, and lay meditating how he should proceed; a thousand schemes offered themselves and were rejected; But he resolved, at all events, to leave Baron Fitz-Owen’s family the first opportunity that presented itself.
He was summoned, as before, to attend my lord at breakfast; during which, he was silent, absent, and reserved. My Lord observed it, and rallied him; enquiring how he had spent the night?
“In reflecting upon my situation, my Lord; and in laying plans for my future conduct.” Oswald took the hint, and asked permission to visit Edmund’s mother in his company, and acquaint her with his intentions of leaving the country soon. He consented freely; but seemed unresolved about Edmund’s departure.
They set out directly, and Edmund went hastily to old Twyford’s cottage, declaring that every field seemed a mile to him. “Restrain your warmth, my son,” said Oswald; “compose your mind, and recover your breath, before you enter upon a business of such consequence.” Margery met them at the door, and asked Edmund, what wind blew him thither?
“Is it so very surprising,” said he, “that I should visit my parents?”
“Yes, it is,” said she, “considering the treatment you have met with from us; but since Andrew is not in the house, I may say I am glad to see you; Lord bless you, what a fine youth you be grown! ‘Tis a long time since I saw you; but that is not my fault; many a cross word, and many a blow, have I had on your account; but I may now venture to embrace my dear child.”
Edmund came forward and embraced her fervently; the starting tears, on both sides, evinced their affection. “And why,” said he, “should my father forbid you to embrace your child? what have I ever done to deserve his hatred?”
“Nothing, my dear boy! you were always good and tender-hearted, and deserved the love of every body.”
“It is not common,” said Edmund, “for a parent to hate his first-born son without his having deserved it.”
“That is true,” said Oswald; “it is uncommon, it is unnatural; nay, I am of opinion it is almost impossible. I am so convinced of this truth, that I believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund, cannot be his father.” In saying this, he observed her countenance attentively; she changed colour apparently. “Come,” said he, “let us sit down; and do you, Margery, answer to what I have said.”
“Blessed Virgin!” said Margery, “what does your reverence mean? what do you suspect?”
“I suspect,” said he, “that Edmund is not the son of Andrew your husband.”
“Lord bless me!” said she, “what is it you do suspect?”
“Do not evade my question, woman! I am come here by authority to examine you upon this point.”
The woman trembled every joint. “Would to Heaven!” said she, “that Andrew was at home!”
“It is much better as it is,” said Oswald; “you are the person we are to examine.”
“Oh, father,” said she, “do you think that I—that I—that I am to blame in this matter? what have I done?”
“Do you, sir,” said he, “ask your own questions.”
Upon this, Edmund threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees. “O my mother!” said he, “for as such my heart owns you, tell me for the love of Heaven! tell me, who was my father?”
“Gracious Heaven!” said she, “what will become of me?”
“Woman!” said Oswald, “confess the truth, or you shall be compelled to do it; by whom had you this youth?”
“Who, I?” said she; “I had him! No, father, I am not guilty of the black crime of adultery; God, He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the mother of such a sweet youth as that is.”
“You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his father?”
“Oh, what shall I do?” said Margery; “Andrew will be the death of me!”
“No, he shall not,” said Edmund; “you shall be protected and rewarded for the discovery.”
“Goody,” said Oswald, “confess the whole truth, and I will protect you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund’s fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all you know, and nobody will thank you for it.”
“Ah,” said she, “but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund; and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him again.”
“He knows it then?” said Oswald.
“He know it! Lord help you, it was all his own doing.”
“Tell us then,” said Oswald; “for Andrew shall never know it, till it is out of his power to punish you.”
“‘Tis a long story,” said she, “and cannot be told in a few words.”
“It will never be told at this rate,” said he; “sit down and begin it instantly.”
“My fate depends upon your words,” said Edmund; “my soul is impatient of the suspense! If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and tell while I have breath to ask it.”
He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally expressive of his inward emotions.
“I will,” said she; “but I must try to recollect all the circumstances. You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of age.”
“On what day was he born,” said Oswald?
“The day before yesterday,” said she, “the 21st of September.”