“A remarkable era,” said he.
“‘Tis so, indeed,” said Edmund; “Oh, that night! that apartment!”
“Be silent,” said Oswald; “and do you, Margery, begin your story.”
“I will,” said she. “Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was near my time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I was sitting all alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; ‘See, Margery,’ said he, ‘I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.’ So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief, and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace. ‘And where did you find this?’ says I. ‘Upon the foot-bridge,’ says he, ‘just below the clayfield. This child,’ said he, ‘belongs to some great folk, and perhaps it may be enquired after one day, and may make our fortunes; take care of it,’ said he, ‘and bring it up as if it was your own.’ The poor infant was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so pitifully, that I loved it; beside, my milk was troublesome to me, and I was glad to be eased of it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I loved the child as if it were my own, and so I do still if I dared to own it.”
“And this is all you know of Edmund’s birth?” said Oswald.
“No, not all,” said Margery; “but pray look out and see whether Andrew is coming, for I am all over in a twitter.”
“He is not,” said Oswald; “go on, I beseech you!”
“This happened,” said she, “as I told you, on the 21st. On the morrow, my Andrew went out early to work, along with one Robin Rouse, our neighbour; they had not been gone above an hour, when they both came back seemingly very much frightened. Says Andrew, ‘Go you, Robin, and borrow a pickaxe at neighbour Styles’s.’ What is the matter now?’ said I. ‘Matter enough!’ quoth Andrew; ‘we may come to be hanged, perhaps, as many an innocent man has before us.’ ‘Tell me what is the matter,’ said I. ‘I will,’ said he; ‘but if ever you open your mouth about it, woe be to you!’ ‘I never will,’ said I; but he made me swear by all the blessed saints in the Calendar; and then he told me, that, as Robin and he were going over the foot-bridge, where he found the child the evening before, they saw something floating upon the water; so they followed it, till it stuck against a stake, and found it to be the dead body of a woman; ‘as sure as you are alive, Madge,’ said he, ‘this was the mother of the child I brought home.’”
“Merciful God!” said Edmund; “am I the child of that hapless mother?”
“Be composed,” said Oswald; “proceed, good woman, the time is precious.”
“And so,” continued she, “Andrew told me they dragged the body out of the river, and it was richly dressed, and must be somebody of consequence. ‘I suppose,’ said he, ‘when the poor Lady had taken care of her child, she went to find some help; and, the night being dark, her foot slipped, and she fell into the river, and was drowned.’
“‘Lord have mercy!’ said Robin, ‘what shall we do with the dead body? we may be taken up for the murder; what had we to do to meddle with it?’ ‘Ay, but,’ says Andrew, ‘we must have something to do with it now; and our wisest way is to bury it.’ Robin was sadly frightened, but at last they agreed to carry it into the wood, and bury it there; so they came home for a pickaxe and shovel. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘Andrew, but will you bury all the rich clothes you speak of?’ ‘Why,’ said he, ‘it would be both a sin and a shame to strip the dead.’ ‘So it would,’ said I; ‘but I will give you a sheet to wrap the body in, and you may take off her upper garments, and any thing of value; but do not strip her to the skin for any thing.’ ‘Well said, wench!’ said he; ‘I will do as you say.’ So I fetched a sheet, and by that time Robin was come back, and away they went together.
“They did not come back again till noon, and then they sat down and ate a morsel together. Says Andrew, ‘Now we may sit down and eat in peace.’ ‘Aye,’ says Robin, ‘and sleep in peace too, for we have done no harm.’ ‘No, to be sure,’ said I; ‘but yet I am much concerned that the poor Lady had not Christian burial.’ ‘Never trouble thyself about that,’ said Andrew; ‘we have done the best we could for her; but let us see what we have got in our bags; we must divide them.’ So they opened their bags, and took out a fine gown and a pair of rich shoes; but, besides these, there was a fine necklace with a golden locket, and a pair of earrings. Says Andrew, and winked at me, ‘I will have these, and you may take the rest.’ Robin said, he was satisfied, and so he went his way. When he was gone, ‘Here, you fool,’ says Andrew, ‘take these, and keep them as safe as the bud of your eye; If ever young master is found, these will make our fortune.’”
“And have you them now?” said Oswald.
“Yes, that I have,” answered she; “Andrew would have sold them long ago, but I always put him off it.”
“Heaven be praised!” said Edmund.
“Hush,” said Oswald, “let us not lose time; proceed, Goody!”
“Nay,” said Margery, “I have not much more to say. We looked every day to hear some enquiries after the child, but nothing passed, nobody was missing.”
“Did nobody of note die about that time?” said Oswald.
“Why yes,” said Margery, “the widow Lady Lovel died that same week; by the same token, Andrew went to the funeral, and brought home a scutcheon, which I keep unto this day.”
“Very well; go on.”
“My husband behaved well enough to the boy, till such time as he had two or three children of his own; and then he began to grumble, and say, it was hard to maintain other folks’ children, when he found it hard enough to keep his own; I loved the boy quite as well as my own; often and often have I pacified Andrew, and made him to hope that he should one day or other be paid for his trouble; but at last he grew out of patience, and gave over all hopes of that kind.
“As Edmund grew up, he grew sickly and tender, and could not bear hard labour; and that was another reason why my husband could not bear with him. ‘If,’ quoth he, ‘the boy could earn his living, I did not care; but I must bear all the expence.[‘] There came an old pilgrim into our parts; he was a scholar, and had been a soldier, and he taught Edmund to read; then he told him histories of wars, and knights, and lords, and great men; and Edmund took such delight in hearing him, that he would not take to any thing else.
“To be sure, Edwin was a pleasant companion; he would tell old stories, and sing old songs, that one could have sat all night to hear him; but, as I was a saying, Edmund grew more and more fond of reading, and less of work; however, he would run of errands, and do many handy turns for the neighbours; and he was so courteous a lad, that people took notice of him. Andrew once catched him alone reading, and then told him, that if he did not find some way to earn his bread, he would turn him out of doors in a very short time; and so he would have done, sure enough, if my Lord Fitz-Owen had not taken him into his service just in the nick.”
“Very well, Goody,” said Oswald; “you have told your story very well; I am glad, for Edmund’s sake, that you can do it so properly. But now, can you keep a secret?”
“Why, an’t please your reverence, I think I have shewed you that I can.”
“But can you keep it from your husband?”
“Aye,” said she, “surely I can; for I dare not tell it him.”
“That is a good security,” said he; “but I must have a better. You must swear upon this book not to disclose any thing that has passed between us three, till we desire you to do it. Be assured you will soon be called upon for this purpose; Edmund’s birth is near the discovery; He is the son of parents of high degree; and it will be in his power to make your fortune, when he takes possession of his own.”
“Holy Virgin! what is it you tell me? How you rejoice me to hear, that what I have so long prayed for will come to pass!”
She took the oath required, saying it after Oswald.
“Now,” said he, “go and fetch the tokens you have mentioned.”
When she was gone, Edmund’s passions, long suppressed, broke out in tears and exclamations; he kneeled down, and, with his hands clasped together, returned thanks to Heaven for the discovery. Oswald begged him to be composed, lest Margery should perceive his agitation, and misconstrue the cause. She soon returned with the necklace and ear-rings; They were pearls of great value; and the necklace had a locket, on which the cypher of Lovel was engraved.
“This,” said Oswald, “is indeed a proof of consequence. Keep it, sir, for it belongs to you.”
“Must he take it away?” said she.
“Certainly,” returned Oswald; “we can do nothing without it; but if Andrew should ask for it, you must put him off for the present, and hereafter he will find his account in it.”
Margery consented reluctantly to part with the jewels; and, after some further conversation, they took leave of her.
Edmund embraced her affectionately. “I thank you with my whole heart,” said he, “for all your goodness to me! Though I confess, I never felt much regard for your husband, yet for you I had always the tender affection of a son. You will, I trust, give your evidence in my behalf when called upon; and I hope it will one day be in my power to reward your kindness; In that case, I will own you as my foster-mother, and you shall always be treated as such.”
Margery wept. “The Lord grant it!” said she; “and I pray him to have you in his holy keeping. Farewell, my dear child!”
Oswald desired them to separate for fear of intrusion; and they returned to the castle. Margery stood at the door of her cottage, looking every way to see if the coast was clear.
“Now, Sir,” said Oswald, “I congratulate you as the son of Lord and Lady Lovel; the proofs are strong and indisputable.”
“To us they are so,” said Edmund; “but how shall we make them so to others? and what are we to think of the funeral of Lady Lovel?”
“As of a fiction,” said Oswald; “the work of the present lord, to secure his title and fortune.”
“And what means can we use to dispossess him?” said Edmund; “He is not a man for a poor youth like me to contend with.”
“Doubt not,” said Oswald, “but Heaven, who has evidently conducted you by the hand thus far, will complete its own work; for my part, I can only wonder and adore!”
“Give me your advice then,” said Edmund; “for Heaven assists us by natural means.”
“It seems to me,” said Oswald, “that your first step must be to make a friend of some great man, of consequence enough to espouse your cause, and to get this affair examined into by authority.”
Edmund started, and crossed himself; he suddenly exclaimed, “A friend! Yes; I have a friend! a powerful one too; one sent by Heaven to be my protector, but whom I have too long neglected.”
“Who can that be?” said Oswald.
“Who should it be,” said Edmund, “but that good Sir Philip Harclay, the chosen friend of him, whom I shall from henceforward call my father.”
“‘Tis true indeed,” said Oswald; “and this is a fresh proof of what I before observed, that Heaven assists you, and will complete its own work.”
“I think so myself,” said Edmund, “and rely upon its direction. I have already determined on my future conduct, which I will communicate to you. My first step shall be to leave the castle; my lord has this day given me a horse, upon which I purpose to set out this very night, without the knowledge of any of the family. I will go to Sir Philip Harclay; I will throw myself at his feet, relate my strange story, and implore his protection; With him I will consult on the most proper way of bringing this murderer to public justice; and I will be guided by his advice and direction in everything.”
“Nothing can be better,” said Oswald, “than what you propose; but give me leave to offer an addition to your scheme. You shall set off in the dead of night, as you intend; Joseph and I, will favour your departure in such a manner as to throw a mystery over the circumstances of it. Your disappearing at such a time from the haunted apartment will terrify and confound all the family; they will puzzle themselves in vain to account for it, and they will be afraid to pry into the secrets of that place.”
“You say well, and I approve your addition,” replied Edmund. “Suppose, likewise, there was a letter written in a mysterious manner, and dropt in my lord’s way, or sent to him afterwards; it would forward our design, and frighten them away from that apartment.” “That shall be my care,” said Oswald; “and I will warrant you that they will not find themselves disposed to inhabit it presently.”
“But how shall I leave my dear friend Mr. William, without a word of notice of this separation?”
“I have thought of that too,” said Oswald; “and I will so manage, as to acquaint him with it in such a manner as he shall think out of the common course of things, and which shall make him wonder and be silent.”
“How will you do that,” said Edmund?
“I will tell you hereafter,” said Oswald; “for here comes old Joseph to meet us.”
He came, indeed, as fast as his age would permit him. As soon as he was within hearing, he asked them what news? They related all that had passed at Twyford’s cottage; he heard them with the greatest eagerness of attention, and as soon as they came to the great event, “I knew it! I knew it!” exclaimed Joseph; “I was sure it would prove so! Thank God for it! But I will be the first to acknowledge my young lord, and I will live and die his faithful servant!” Here Joseph attempted to kneel to him, but Edmund prevented him with a warm embrace.
“My friend! my dear friend!” said he, “I cannot suffer a man of your age to kneel to me; are you not one of my best and truest friends? I will ever remember your disinterested affection for me; and if heaven restores me to my rights, it shall be one of my first cares to render your old age easy and happy.” Joseph wept over him, and it was some time before he could utter a word.
Oswald gave them both time to recover their emotion, by acquaintingJoseph with Edmund’s scheme for his departure. Joseph wiped his eyes andspoke. “I have thought,” said he, “of something that will be both agreeand useful to my dear master. John Wyatt, Sir Philip Harclay’s servant,is now upon a visit at his father’s; I have heard that he goes homesoon; now he would be both a guide and companion, on the way.”
“That is, indeed, a happy circumstance,” said Edmund; “but how shall we know certainly the time of his departure?”
“Why, Sir, I will go to him, and enquire; and bring you word directly.”
“Do so,” said Edmund, “and you will oblige me greatly.”
“But, Sir,” said Oswald, “I think it will be best not to let John Wyatt know who is to be his companion; only let Joseph tell him that a gentleman is going to visit his master, and, if possible, prevail upon him to set out this night.”
“Do so, my good friend,” said Edmund; “and tell him, further, that this person has business of great consequence to communicate to his master, and cannot delay his journey on any account.”
“I will do this, you may depend,” said Joseph, “and acquaint you with my success as soon as possible; but, sir, you must not go without a guide, at any rate.”
“I trust I shall not,” said Edmund, “though I go alone; he that has received such a call as I have, can want no other, nor fear any danger.”
They conversed on these points till they drew near the castle, when Joseph left them to go on his errand, and Edmund attended his Lord at dinner. The Baron observed that he was silent and reserved; the conversation languished on both sides. As soon as dinner was ended, Edmund asked permission to go up into his own apartment; where he packed up some necessaries, and made a hasty preparation for his departure.
Afterwards he walked into the garden, revolving in his mind the peculiarity of his situation, and the uncertainty of his future prospects; lost in thought, he walked to and fro in a covered walk, with his arms crossed and his eyes cast down, without perceiving that he was observed by two females who stood at a distance watching his motions. It was the Lady Emma, and her attendant, who were thus engaged. At length, he lifted up his eyes and saw them; he stood still, and was irresolute whether to advance or retire. They approached him; and, as they drew near, fair Emma spoke.
“You have been so wrapt in meditation, Edmund, that I am apprehensive of some new vexation that I am yet a stranger to. Would it were in my power to lessen those you have already! But tell me if I guess truly?”
He stood still irresolute, he answered with hesitation. “O, lady—I am—I am grieved, I am concerned, to be the cause of so much confusion in this noble family, to which I am so much indebted; I see no way to lessen these evils but to remove the cause of them.”
“Meaning yourself?” said she.
“Certainly, Madam; and I was meditating on my departure.”
“But,” said she, “by your departure you will not remove the cause.”
“How so, madam?”
“Because you are not the cause, but those you will leave behind you.”
“Lady Emma!”
“How can you affect this ignorance, Edmund? You know well enough it is that odious Wenlock, your enemy and my aversion, that has caused all this mischief among us, and will much more, if he is not removed.”
“This, madam, is a subject that it becomes me to be silent upon. Mr. Wenlock is your kinsman; he is not my friend; and for that reason I ought not to speak against him, nor you to hear it from me. If he has used me ill, I am recompensed by the generous treatment of my lord your father, who is all that is great and good; he has allowed me to justify myself to him, and he has restored me to his good opinion, which I prize among the best gifts of heaven. Your amiable brother William thinks well of me, and his esteem is infinitely dear to me; and you, excellent Lady, permit me to hope that you honour me with your good opinion. Are not these ample amends for the ill-will Mr. Wenlock bears me?”
“My opinion of you, Edmund,” said she, “is fixed and settled. It is not founded upon events of yesterday, but upon long knowledge and experience; upon your whole conduct and character.”
“You honour me, lady! Continue to think well of me, it will excite me to deserve it. When I am far distant from this place, the remembrance of your goodness will be a cordial to my heart.”
“But why will you leave us, Edmund? Stay and defeat the designs of your enemy; you shall have my wishes and assistance.”
“Pardon me, Madam, that is among the things I cannot do, even if it were in my power, which it is not. Mr. Wenlock loves you, lady, and if he is so unhappy as to be your aversion, that is a punishment severe enough. For the rest, I may be unfortunate by the wickedness of others, but if I am unworthy, it must be by my own fault.”
“So then you think it is an unworthy action to oppose Mr. Wenlock! Very well, sir. Then I suppose you wish him success; you wish that I may be married to him?”
“I, Madam!” said Edmund, confused; “what am I that I should give my opinion on an affair of so much consequence? You distress me by the question. May you be happy! may you enjoy your own wishes!”
He sighed, he turned away. She called him back; he trembled, and kept silence.
She seemed to enjoy his confusion; she was cruel enough to repeat the question.
“Tell me, Edmund, and truly, do you wish to see me give my hand to Wenlock? I insist upon your answer.”
All on a sudden he recovered both his voice and courage; he stepped forward, his person erect, his countenance assured, his voice resolute and intrepid.
“Since Lady Emma insists upon my answer, since she avows a dislike to Wenlock, since she condescends to ask my opinion, I will tell her my thoughts, my wishes.”
The fair Emma now trembled in her turn; she blushed, looked down, and was ashamed to have spoken so freely.
Edmund went on. “My most ardent wishes are, that the fair Emma may reserve her heart and hand till a certain person, a friend of mine, is at liberty to solicit them; whose utmost ambition is, first to deserve, and then to obtain them.”
“Your friend, Sir!” said Lady Emma! her brow clouded, her eye disdainful.
Edmund proceeded. “My friend is so particularly circumstanced that hecannot at present with propriety ask for Lady Emma’s favour; but as soonas he has gained a cause that is yet in suspence, he will openly declarehis pretensions, and if he is unsuccessful, he will then condemn himselfto eternal silence.”Lady Emma knew not what to think of this declaration; she hoped, shefeared, she meditated; but her attention was too strongly excited tobe satisfied without some gratification; After a pause, she pursued thesubject.
“And this friend of yours, sir, of what degree and fortune is he?”
Edmund smiled; but, commanding his emotion, he replied, “His birth is noble, his degree and fortune uncertain.”
Her countenance fell, she sighed; he proceeded. “It is utterly impossible,” said he, “for any man of inferior degree to aspire to Lady Emma’s favour; her noble birth, the dignity of her beauty and virtues, must awe and keep at their proper distance, all men of inferior degree and merit; they may admire, they may revere; but they must not presume to approach too near, lest their presumption should meet with its punishment.”
“Well, sir,” said she, suddenly; “and so this friend of yours has commissioned you to speak in his behalf?”
“He has, Madam.”
“Then I must tell you, that I think his assurance is very great, and yours not much less.”
“I am sorry for that, Madam.”
“Tell him, that I shall reserve my heart and hand for the man to whom my father shall bid me give them.”
“Very well, Lady; I am certain my lord loves you too well to dispose of them against your inclination.”
“How do you know that, sir? But tell him, that the man that hopes for my favour must apply to my lord for his.”
“That is my friend’s intention—his resolution, I should say—as soon as he can do it with propriety; and I accept your permission for him to do so.”
“My permission did you say? I am astonished at your assurance! tell me no more of your friend; But perhaps you are pleading for Wenlock all this time; It is all one to me; only, say no more.”
“Are you offended with me, madam?”
“No matter, sir.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I am surprised at you, Edmund.”
“I am surprised at my own temerity; but, forgive me.”
“It does not signify; good bye ty’e, sir.”
“Don’t leave me in anger, madam; I cannot bear that. Perhaps I may notsee you again for a long time.”He looked afflicted; she turned back. “I do forgive you, Edmund; Iwas concerned for you; but, it seems, you are more concerned for everybody than for yourself.” She sighed; “Farewell!” said she.
Edmund gazed on her with tenderness; he approached her, he just touched her hand; his heart was rising to his lips, but he recollected his situation; he checked himself immediately; he retired back, he sighed deeply, bowed low, and hastily quitted her.
The lady turning into another walk, he reached the house first, and went up again to his chamber; he threw himself upon his knees; prayed for a thousand blessings upon every one of the family of his benefactor, and involuntarily wept at mentioning the name of the charming Emma, whom he was about to leave abruptly, and perhaps for ever. He then endeavoured to compose himself, and once more attended the Baron; wished him a good night; and withdrew to his chamber, till he was called upon to go again to the haunted apartment.
He came down equipped for his journey, and went hastily for fear of observation; he paid his customary devotions, and soon after Oswald tapped at the door. They conferred together upon the interesting subject that engrossed their attention, until Joseph came to them, who brought the rest of Edmund’s baggage, and some refreshment for him before he set out. Edmund promised to give them the earliest information of his situation and success. At the hour of twelve they heard the same groans as the night before in the lower apartment; but, being somewhat familiarized to it, they were not so strongly affected. Oswald crossed himself, and prayed for the departed soul; he also prayed for Edmund, and recommended him to the Divine protection. He then arose, and embraced that young man; who, also, took a tender leave of his friend Joseph. They then went, with silence and caution, through a long gallery; they descended the stairs in the same manner; they crossed the hall in profound silence, and hardly dared to breathe, lest they should be overheard; they found some difficulty in opening one of the folding doors, which at last they accomplished; they were again in jeopardy at the outward gate. At length they conveyed him safely into the stables; there they again embraced him, and prayed for his prosperity.
He then mounted his horse, and set forward to Wyatt’s cottage; he hallooed at the door, and was answered from within. In a few minutes John came out to him.
“What, is it you, Master Edmund?”
“Hush!” said he; “not a word of who I am; I go upon private business, and would not wish to be known.”
“If you will go forward, sir, I will soon overtake you.” He did so; and they pursued their journey to the north. In the mean time, Oswald and Joseph returned in silence into the house; they retired to their respective apartments without hearing or being heard by any one.
About the dawn of day Oswald intended to lay his packets in the way of those to whom they were addressed; after much contrivance he determined to take a bold step, and, if he were discovered, to frame some excuse. Encouraged by his late success, he went on tip-toe into Master William’s chamber, placed a letter upon his pillow, and withdrew unheard. Exulting in his heart, he attempted the Baron’s apartment, but found it fastened within. Finding this scheme frustrated, he waited till the hour the Baron was expected down to breakfast, and laid the letter and the key of the haunted apartment upon the table. Soon after, he saw the Baron enter the breakfast room; he got out of sight, but staid within call, preparing himself for a summons. The Baron sat down to breakfast; he saw a letter directed to himself—he opened it, and to his great surprise, read as follows:—
“The guardian of the haunted apartment to Baron Fitz-Owen. To thee I remit the key of my charge, until the right owner shall come, who will both discover and avenge my wrongs; then, woe be to the guilty!—But let the innocent rest in peace. In the mean time, let none presume to explore the secrets of my apartment, lest they suffer for their temerity.”
The Baron was struck with amazement at the letter. He took up the key, examined it, then laid it down, and took up the letter; he was in such confusion of thought, he knew not what to do or say for several minutes. At length he called his servants about him; the first question he asked was—
“Where is Edmund?”
“They could not tell.
“Has he been called?”
“Yes, my Lord, but nobody answered, and the key was not in the door.”
“Where is Joseph?”
“Gone into the stables.”
“Where is father Oswald?”
“In his study.”
“Seek him, and desire him to come hither.”
By the time the Baron had read the letter over again, he came.
He had been framing a steady countenance to answer to all interrogatories. As he came in he attentively observed the Baron, whose features were in strong agitation; as soon as he saw Oswald, he spoke as one out of breath.
“Take that key, and read this letter!”
He did so, shrugged up his shoulders, and remained silent.
“Father,” said my lord, “what think you of this letter?”
“It is a very surprising one.”
“The contents are alarming. Where is Edmund?”
“I do not know.”
“Has nobody seen him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Call my sons, my kinsmen, my servants.”
The servants came in.
“Have any of you seen or heard of Edmund?”
“No,” was the answer.
“Father, step upstairs to my sons and kinsmen, and desire them to come down immediately.”
Oswald withdrew; and went, first, to Mr. William’s chamber.
“My dear sir, you must come to my lord now directly—he has something extraordinary to communicate to you.”
“And so have I, father—see what I have found upon my pillow!”
“Pray, sir, read it to me before you shew it to any body; my lord is alarmed too much already, and wants nothing to increase his consternation.”
William read his letter, while Oswald looked as if he was an utter stranger to the contents, which were these:—
“Whatever may be heard or seen, let the seal of friendship be upon thy lips. The peasant Edmund is no more; but there still lives a man who hopes to acknowledge, and repay, the Lord Fitz-Owen’s generous care and protection; to return his beloved William’s vowed affection, and to claim his friendship on terms of equality.”
“What,” said William, “can this mean?”
“It is not easy to say,” replied Oswald.
“Can you tell what is the cause of this alarm?”
“I can tell you nothing, but that my lord desires to see you directly—pray make haste down; I must go up to your brothers and kinsmen, nobody knows what to think, or believe.”
Master William went down stairs, and Father Oswald went to the malcontents. As soon as he entered the outward door of their apartment, Mr. Wenlock called out. “Here comes the friend—now for some new proposal!”
“Gentlemen,” said Oswald, “my lord desires your company immediately in the breakfast parlour.”
“What! to meet your favourite Edmund, I suppose?” said Mr. Wenlock.
“No, sir.”
“What, then, is the matter?” said Sir Robert.
“Something very extraordinary has happened, gentlemen. Edmund is not to be found—he disappeared from the haunted apartment, the key of which was conveyed to my lord in a strange manner, with a letter from an unknown hand; my lord is both surprised and concerned, and wishes to have your opinion and advice on the occasion.”
“Tell him,” said Sir Robert, “we will wait upon him immediately.”
As Oswald went away, he heard Wenlock say, “So Edmund is gone, it is no matter how, or whither.”
Another said, “I hope the ghost has taken him out of the way.” The rest laughed at the conceit, as they followed Oswald down stairs. They found the Baron, and his son William, commenting upon the key and the letter. My lord gave them to Sir Robert, who looked on them with marks of surprise and confusion.
The Baron addressed him—
“Is not this a very strange affair? Son Robert, lay aside your ill humours, and behave to your father with the respect and affection his tenderness deserves from you, and give me your advice and opinion on this alarming subject.”
“My Lord,” said Sir Robert, “I am as much confounded as yourself—I can give no advice—let my cousins see the letter—let us have their opinion.”
They read it in turn—they were equally surprised; but when it came into Wenlock’s hand, he paused and meditated some minutes.
At length—“I am indeed surprised, and still more concerned, to see my lord and uncle the dupe of an artful contrivance; and, if he will permit me, I shall endeavour to unriddle it, to the confusion of all that are concerned in it.”
“Do so, Dick,” said my lord, “and you shall have my thanks for it.”
“This letter,” said he, “I imagine to be the contrivance of Edmund, or some ingenious friend of his, to conceal some designs they have against the peace of this family, which has been too often disturbed upon that rascal’s account.”
“But what end could be proposed by it?” said the Baron.
“Why, one part of the scheme is to cover Edmund’s departure, that is clear enough; for the rest, we can only guess at it—perhaps he may be concealed somewhere in that apartment, from whence he may rush out in the night, and either rob or murder us; or, at least, alarm and terrify the family.”
The Baron smiled.
“You shoot beyond the mark, sir, and overshoot yourself, as you have done before now; you shew only your inveteracy against that poor lad, whom you cannot mention with temper. To what purpose should he shut himself up there, to be starved?”
“Starved! no, no! he has friends in this house (looking at Oswald), who will not suffer him to want anything; those who have always magnified his virtues, and extenuated his faults, will lend a hand to help him in time of need; and, perhaps, to assist his ingenious contrivances.”
Oswald shrugged up his shoulders, and remained silent.
“This is a strange fancy of yours, Dick,” said my lord; “but I am willing to pursue it,—first, to discover what you drive at; and, secondly, to satisfy all that are here present of the truth or falsehood of it, that they may know what value to set upon your sagacity hereafter. Let us all go over that apartment together; and let Joseph be called to attend us thither.”
Oswald offered to call him, but Wenlock stopped him. “No, father,” said he, “you must stay with us; we want your ghostly counsel and advice; Joseph shall have no private conference with you.”
“What mean you,” said Oswald, “to insinuate to my lord against me or Joseph? But your ill-will spares nobody. It will one day be known who is the disturber of the peace of this family; I wait for that time, and am silent.”
Joseph came; when he was told whither they were going, he looked hard at Oswald. Wenlock observed them.
“Lead the way, father,” said he, “and Joseph shall follow us.”
Oswald smiled.
“We will go where Heaven permits us,” said he; “alas! the wisdom of man can neither hasten, nor retard, its decrees.”
They followed the father up stairs, and went directly to the haunted apartment. The Baron unlocked the door; he bid Joseph open the shutters, and admit the daylight, which had been excluded for many years. They went over the rooms above stairs, and then descended the staircase, and through the lower rooms in the same manner. However, they overlooked the closet, in which the fatal secret was concealed; the door was covered with tapestry, the same as the room, and united so well that it seemed but one piece. Wenlock tauntingly desired Father Oswald to introduce them to the ghost. The father, in reply, asked them where they should find Edmund. “Do you think,” said he, “that he lies hid in my pocket, or in Joseph’s?”
“‘Tis no matter,” answered he; “thoughts are free.”
“My opinion of you, Sir,” said Oswald, “is not founded upon thoughts—I judge of men by their actions,—a rule, I believe, it will not suit you to be tried by.”
“None of your insolent admonitions, father!” returned Wenlock; “this is neither the time nor the place for them.”
“That is truer than you are aware of, sir; I meant not to enter into the subject just now.”
“Be silent,” said my Lord.
“I shall enter into this subject with you hereafter—then look you be prepared for it. In the mean time, do you, Dick Wenlock, answer to my questions:—Do you think Edmund is concealed in this apartment?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think there is any mystery in it?”
“No, my lord.”
“Is it haunted, think you?”
“No, I think not.”
“Should you be afraid to try?”
“In what manner, my lord?”
“Why, you have shewn your wit upon the subject, and I mean to show your courage;—you, and Jack Markham your confident, shall sleep here three nights, as Edmund has done before.”
“Sir,” said Sir Robert, “for what purpose? I should be glad to understand why.”
“I have my reasons, sir, as well as your kinsmen there. No reply, Sirs! I insist upon being obeyed in this point. Joseph, let the beds be well aired, and every thing made agreeable to the gentlemen; If there is any contrivance to impose upon me, they, I am sure, will have pleasure in detecting it; and, if not, I shall obtain my end in making these rooms habitable. Oswald, come with me; and the rest may go where they list till dinner-time.”
The Baron went with Oswald into the parlour.
“Now tell me, father,” said he, “do you disapprove what I have done?”
“Quite the contrary, my lord,” said he; “I entirely approve it.”
“But you do not know all my reasons for it. Yesterday Edmund’s behaviour was different from what I have ever seen it—he is naturally frank and open in all his ways; but he was then silent, thoughtful, absent; he sighed deeply, and once I saw tears stand in his eyes. Now, I do suspect there is something uncommon in that apartment—that Edmund has discovered the secret; and, fearing to disclose it, he is fled away from the house. As to this letter, perhaps he may have written it to hint that there is more than he dares reveal; I tremble at the hints contained in it, though I shall appear to make light of it. But I and mine are innocent; and if Heaven discloses the guilt of others, I ought to adore and submit to its decrees.”
“That is prudently and piously resolved, my lord; let us do our duty, and leave events to Heaven.”
“But, father, I have a further view in obliging my kinsmen to sleep there:—if any thing should appear to them, it is better that it should only be known to my own family; if there is nothing in it, I shall put to the proof the courage and veracity of my two kinsmen, of whom I think very indifferently. I mean shortly to enquire into many things I have heard lately to their disadvantage; and, if I find them guilty, they shall not escape with impunity.”
“My lord,” said Oswald, “you judge like yourself; I wish you to make enquiry concerning them, and believe the result will be to their confusion, and your Lordship will be enabled to re-establish the peace of your family.”
During this conversation, Oswald was upon his guard, lest any thing should escape that might create suspicion. He withdrew as soon as he could with decency, and left the Baron meditating what all these things should mean; he feared there was some misfortune impending over his house, though he knew not from what cause.
He dined with his children and kinsmen, and strove to appear cheerful; but a gloom was perceivable through his deportment. Sir Robert was reserved and respectful; Mr. William was silent and attentive; the rest of the family dutifully assiduous to my Lord; only Wenlock and Markham were sullen and chagrined. The Baron detained the young men the whole afternoon; he strove to amuse and to be amused; he shewed the greatest affection and parental regard to his children, and endeavoured to conciliate their affections, and engage their gratitude by kindness. Wenlock and Markham felt their courage abate as the night approached; At the hour of nine, old Joseph came to conduct them to the haunted apartment; they took leave of their kinsmen, and went up stairs with heavy hearts.
They found the chamber set in order for them, and a table spread with provision and good liquor to keep up their spirits.
“It seems,” said Wenlock, “that your friend Edmund was obliged to you for his accommodations here.”
“Sir,” said Joseph, “his accommodations were bad enough the first night; but, afterwards, they were bettered by my lord’s orders.”
“Owing to your officious cares?” said Wenlock.
“I own it,” said Joseph, “and I am not ashamed of it.”
“Are you not anxious to know what is become of him?” said Markham.
“Not at all, sir; I trust he is in the best protection; so good a young man as he is, is safe everywhere.”
“You see, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “how this villain has stole the hearts of my uncle’s servants; I suppose this canting old fellow knows where he is, if the truth were known.”
“Have you any further commands for me, gentlemen?” said the old man.
“No, not we.”
“Then I am ordered to attend my lord, when you have done with me.”
“Go, then, about your business.”
Joseph went away, glad to be dismissed.
“What shall we do, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “to pass away the time?—it is plaguy dull sitting here.”
“Dull enough,” said Markham, “I think the best thing we can do, is to go to bed and sleep it away.”
“Faith!” says Wenlock, “I am in no disposition to sleep. Who would have thought the old man would have obliged us to spend the night here?”
“Don’t say us, I beg of you; it was all your own doing,” replied Markham.
“I did not intend he should have taken me at my word.”
“Then you should have spoken more cautiously. I have always been governed by you, like a fool as I am; you play the braggart, and I suffer for it; But they begin to see through your fine-spun arts and contrivances, and I believe you will meet with your deserts one day or other.”
“What now? do you mean to affront me, Jack? Know, that some are born to plan, others to execute; I am one of the former, thou of the latter. Know your friend, or—”
“Or what?” replied Markham; “do you mean to threaten me? If you do!”
“What then?” said Wenlock.
“Why, then, I will try which of us two is the best man, sir!”
Upon this Markham arose, and put himself into a posture of defence. Wenlock perceiving he was serious in his anger, began to soothe him; he persuaded, he flattered, he promised great things if he would be composed. Markham was sullen, uneasy, resentful; whenever he spoke, it was to upbraid Wenlock with his treachery and falsehood. Wenlock tried all his eloquence to get him into a good humour, but in vain; he threatened to acquaint his uncle with all that he knew, and to exculpate himself at the other’s expence. Wenlock began to find his choler rise; they were both almost choaked with rage; and, at length, they both rose with a resolution to fight.
As they stood with their fists clenched, on a sudden they were alarmed with a dismal groan from the room underneath. They stood like statues petrified by fear, yet listening with trembling expectation. A second groan increased their consternation; and, soon after, a third completed it. They staggered to a seat, and sunk down upon it, ready to faint. Presently, all the doors flew open, a pale glimmering light appeared at the door, from the staircase, and a man in complete armour entered the room. He stood, with one hand extended, pointing to the outward door; they took the hint, and crawled away as fast as fear would let them; they staggered along the gallery, and from thence to the Baron’s apartment, where Wenlock sunk down in a swoon, and Markham had just strength enough to knock at the door.
The servant who slept in the outward room alarmed his lord.
Markham cried out, “For Heaven’s sake, let us in!”
Upon hearing his voice, the door was opened, and Markham approached his Uncle in such an attitude of fear, as excited a degree of it in the Baron. He pointed to Wenlock, who was with some difficulty recovered from the fit he was fallen into; the servant was terrified, he rung the alarm-bell; the servants came running from all parts to their Lord’s apartment; The young gentlemen came likewise, and presently all was confusion, and the terror was universal. Oswald, who guessed the business, was the only one that could question them. He asked several times,
“What is the matter?”
Markham, at last, answered him, “We have seen the ghost!”
All regard to secrecy was now at an end; the echo ran through the whole family—“They have seen the ghost!”
The Baron desired Oswald to talk to the young men, and endeavour to quiet the disturbance. He came forward; he comforted some, he rebuked others; he had the servants retire into the outward room. The Baron, with his sons and kinsmen, remained in the bed-chamber.
“It is very unfortunate,” said Oswald, “that this affair should be made so public; surely these young men might have related what they had seen, without alarming the whole family. I am very much concerned upon my lord’s account.”
“I thank you, father,” said the Baron; “but prudence was quite overthrown here. Wenlock was half dead, and Markham half distracted; the family were alarmed without my being able to prevent it. But let us hear what these poor terrified creatures say.”
Oswald demanded, “What have you seen, gentlemen?”
“The ghost!” said Markham.
“In what form did it appear?”
“A man in armour.”
“Did it speak to you?”
“No.”
“What did it do to terrify you so much?”
“It stood at the farthest door, and pointed to the outward door, as if to have us leave the room; we did not wait for a second notice, but came away as fast as we could.”
“Did it follow you?”
“No.”
“Then you need not have raised such a disturbance.”
Wenlock lifted up his head, and spoke—
“I believe, father, if you had been with us, you would not have stood upon ceremonies any more than we did. I wish my lord would send you to parley with the ghost; for, without doubt, you are better qualified than we.”
“My Lord,” said Oswald, “I will go thither, with your permission; I will see that every thing is safe, and bring the key back to you; Perhaps this may help to dispel the fears that have been raised—at least, I will try to do it.”
“I thank you, father, for your good offices—do as you please.”
Oswald went into the outward room. “I am going,” said he, “to shut up the apartment. The young gentlemen have been more frightened than they had occasion for; I will try to account for it. Which of you will go with me?”
They all drew back, except Joseph, who offered to bear him company. They went into the bedroom in the haunted apartment, and found every thing quiet there. They put out the fire, extinguished the lights, locked the door, and brought away the key. As they returned, “I thought how it would be,” said Joseph.
“Hush! not a word,” said Oswald; “you find we are suspected of something, though they know not what. Wait till you are called upon, and then we will both speak to purpose.” They carried the key to the Baron.
“All is quiet in the apartment,” said Oswald, “as we can testify.”
“Did you ask Joseph to go with you,” said the Baron, “or did he offer himself?”
“My Lord, I asked if any body would go with me, and they all declined it but he; I thought proper to have a witness beside myself, for whatever might be seen or heard.”
“Joseph, you were servant to the late Lord Lovel; what kind of man was he?”
“A very comely man, please your lordship.”
“Should you know him if you were to see him?”
“I cannot say, my lord.”
“Would you have any objection to sleep a night in that apartment?”
“I beg,”—“I hope,”—“I beseech your lordship not to command me to do it!”
“You are then afraid; why did you offer yourself to go thither?”
“Because I was not so much frightened as the rest.”
“I wish you would lie a night there; but I do not insist upon it.”
“My lord, I am a poor ignorant old man, not fit for such an undertaking; beside, if I should see the ghost, and if it should be the person of my master, and if it should tell me any thing, and bid me keep it secret, I should not dare to disclose it; and then, what service should I do your lordship?”
“That is true, indeed,” said the Baron.
“This speech,” said Sir Robert, “is both a simple and an artful one. You see, however, that Joseph is not a man for us to depend upon; he regards the Lord Lovel, though dead, more than Lord Fitz-Owen, living; he calls him his master, and promises to keep his secrets. What say you, father, Is the ghost your master, or your friend? Are you under any obligation to keep his secrets?”
“Sir,” said Oswald, “I answer as Joseph does; I would sooner die than discover a secret revealed in that manner.”
“I thought as much,” said Sir Robert; “there is a mystery in Father Oswald’s behaviour, that I cannot comprehend.”
“Do not reflect upon the father,” said the Baron; “I have no cause to complain of him; perhaps the mystery may be too soon explained; but let us not anticipate evils. Oswald and Joseph have spoken like good men; I am satisfied with their answers; let us, who are innocent, rest in peace; and let us endeavour to restore peace in the family; and do you, father, assist us.”
“With my best services,” said Oswald. He called the servants in. “Let nothing be mentioned out of doors,” said he, “of what has lately passed within, especially in the east apartment; the young gentlemen had not so much reason to be frightened as they apprehended; a piece of furniture fell down in the rooms underneath, which made the noise that alarmed them so much; but I can certify that all things in the rooms are in quiet, and there is nothing to fear. All of you attend me in the chapel in an hour; do your duties, put your trust in God, and obey your Lord, and you will find every thing go right as it used to do.”
They dispersed; the sun rose, the day came on, and every thing went on in the usual course; but the servants were not so easily satisfied; they whispered that something was wrong, and expected the time that should set all right. The mind of the Baron was employed in meditating upon these circumstances, that seemed to him the forerunners of some great events; he sometimes thought of Edmund; he sighed for his expulsion, and lamented the uncertainty of his fate; but, to his family, he appeared easy and satisfied.
From the time of Edmund’s departure, the fair Emma had many uneasy hours; she wished to enquire after him, but feared to shew any solicitude concerning him. The next day, when her brother William came into her apartment, she took courage to ask a question.
“Pray, brother, can you give any guess what is become of Edmund?”
“No,” said he, with a sigh; “why do you ask me?”
“Because, my dear William, I should think if any body knew, it must be you; and I thought he loved you too well to leave you in ignorance. But don’t you think he left the castle in a very strange manner?”
“I do, my dear; there is a mystery in every circumstance of his departure; Nevertheless (I will trust you with a secret), he did not leave the castle without making a distinction in my favour.”
“I thought so,” said she; “but you might tell me what you know about him.”
“Alas, my dear Emma! I know nothing. When I saw him last, he seemed a good deal affected, as if he were taking leave of me; and I had a foreboding that we parted for a longer time than usual.”
“Ah! so had I,” said she, “when he parted from me in the garden.”
“What leave did he take of you, Emma?”
She blushed, and hesitated to tell him all that passed between them; but he begged, persuaded, insisted; and, at length, under the strongest injunctions of secrecy, she told him all.
He said, “That Edmund’s behaviour on that occasion was as mysterious as the rest of his conduct; but, now you have revealed your secret, you have a right to know mine.”
He then gave her the letter he found upon his pillow; she read it with great emotion.
“Saint Winifred assist me!” said she; “what can I think? ‘The peasant Edmund is no more, but there lives one,’—that is to my thinking, Edmund lives, but is no peasant.”
“Go on, my dear,” said William; “I like your explanation.”
“Nay, brother, I only guess; but what think you?”
“I believe we think alike in more than one respect, that he meant to recommend no other person than himself to your favour; and, if he were indeed of noble birth, I would prefer him to a prince for a husband to my Emma!”
“Bless me!” said she, “do you think it possible that he should be of either birth or fortune?”
“It is hard to say what is impossible! we have proof that the east apartment is haunted. It was there that Edmund was made acquainted with many secrets, I doubt not: and, perhaps, his own fate may be involved in that of others. I am confident that what he saw and heard there, was the cause of his departure. We must wait with patience the unravelling this intricate affair; I believe I need not enjoin your secrecy as to what I have said; your heart will be my security.”
“What mean you, brother?”
“Don’t affect ignorance, my dear; you love Edmund, so do I; it is nothing to be ashamed of. It would have been strange, if a girl of your good sense had not distinguished a swan among a flock of geese.”
“Dear William, don’t let a word of this escape you; but you have taken a weight off my heart. You may depend that I will not dispose of my hand or heart till I know the end of this affair.”
William smiled: “Keep them for Edmund’s friend; I shall rejoice to see him in a situation to ask them.”
“Hush, my brother! not a word more; I hear footsteps.”
They were her eldest brother’s, who came to ask Mr. William to ride out with him, which finished the conference.
The fair Emma from this time assumed an air of satisfaction; and William frequently stole away from his companions to talk with his sister upon their favourite subject.
While these things passed at the castle of Lovel, Edmund and his companion John Wyatt proceeded on their journey to Sir Philip Harclay’s seat; they conversed together on the way, and Edmund found him a man of understanding, though not improved by education; he also discovered that John loved his master, and respected him even to veneration; from him he learned many particulars concerning that worthy knight. Wyatt told him, “That Sir Philip maintained twelve old soldiers who had been maimed and disabled in the wars, and had no provision made for them; also six old officers, who had been unfortunate, and were grown grey without preferment; he likewise mentioned the Greek gentleman, his master’s captive and friend, as a man eminent for valour and piety; but, beside these,” said Wyatt, “there are many others who eat of my master’s bread and drink of his cup, and who join in blessings and prayers to Heaven for their noble benefactor; his ears are ever open to distress, his hand to relieve it, and he shares in every good man’s joys and blessings.”
“Oh, what a glorious character!” said Edmund; “how my heart throbs with wishes to imitate such a man! Oh, that I might resemble him, though at ever so great a distance!”
Edmund was never weary of hearing the actions of this truly great man, nor Wyatt with relating them; and, during three days journey, there were but few pauses in their conversation.
The fourth day, when they came within view of the house, Edmund’s heart began to raise doubts of his reception. “If,” said he, “Sir Philip should not receive me kindly, if he should resent my long neglect, and disown my acquaintance, it would be no more than justice.”
He sent Wyatt before, to notify his arrival to Sir Philip, while he waited at the gate, full of doubts and anxieties concerning his reception. Wyatt was met and congratulated on his return by most of his fellow-servants. He asked—
“Where is my master?”
“In the parlour.”
“Are any strangers with him?”
“No, only his own family.”
“Then I will shew myself to him.”
He presented himself before Sir Philip.
“So, John,” said he, “you are welcome home! I hope you left your parents and relations well?”
“All well, thank God! and send their humble duty to your honour, and they pray for you every day of their lives. I hope your honour is in good health.”
“Very well.”
“Thank God for that! but, sir, I have something further to tell you; I have had a companion all the way home, a person who comes to wait on your honour, on business of great consequence, as he says.”
“Who is that, John?”
“It is Master Edmund Twyford, from the castle of Lovel.”
“Young Edmund!” says Sir Philip, surprised; “where is he?”
“At the gate, sir.”
“Why did you leave him there?”
“Because he bade me come before, and acquaint your honour, that he waits your pleasure.”
“Bring him hither,” said Sir Philip; “tell him I shall be glad to see him.”
John made haste to deliver his message, and Edmund followed him in silence into Sir Philip’s presence.
He bowed low, and kept at a distance. Sir Philip held out his hand, and bad him approach. As he drew near, he was seized with an universal trembling; he kneeled down, took his hand, kissed it, and pressed it to his heart in silence.
“You are welcome, young man!” said Sir Philip; “take courage, and speak for yourself.”
Edmund sighed deeply; he at length broke silence with difficulty. “I am come thus far, noble sir, to throw myself at your feet, and implore your protection. You are, under God, my only reliance.”
“I receive you,” said Sir Philip, “with all my heart! Your person is greatly improved since I saw you last, and I hope your mind is equally so; I have heard a great character of you from some that knew you in France. I remember the promise I made you long ago, and am ready now to fulfil it, upon condition that you have done nothing to disgrace the good opinion I formerly entertained of you; and am ready to serve you in any thing consistent with my own honour.”
Edmund kissed the hand that was extended to raise him. “I accept your favour, sir, upon this condition only; and if ever you find me to impose upon your credulity, or incroach on your goodness, may you renounce me from that moment!”
“Enough,” said Sir Philip; “rise, then, and let me embrace you; You are truly welcome!”
“Oh, noble sir!” said Edmund, “I have a strange story to tell you; but it must be by ourselves, with only heaven to bear witness to what passes between us.”
“Very well,” said Sir Philip; “I am ready to hear you; but first, go and get some refreshment after your journey, and then come to me again. John Wyatt will attend you.”
“I want no refreshment,” said Edmund; “and I cannot eat or drink till I have told my business to your honour.”