← catalogue

Bungay Castle: A Novel. v. 1/2

by Mrs. Bonhote · English · Gutenberg #37533 · 527,206 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bungay Castle: A Novel. v. 1/2
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Bungay Castle: A Novel. v. 1/2

Author: Mrs. Bonhote


        
Release date: September 25, 2011 [eBook #37533]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37533

Credits: Produced by ppcunningham from the library of San Francisco State University


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BUNGAY CASTLE: A NOVEL. V. 1/2 ***




Produced by ppcunningham from the library of San Francisco
State University




Transcriber's Note:

This is a faithful transcription of the original 1796 printing
of this novel. All archaic words, alternative spellings, and
inconsistencies of grammatical form and fashion, have been
preserved.

   *     *     *     *     *




BUNGAY CASTLE:

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. BONHOTE.

Author of the Parental Monitor, &c.


_In Two Volumes_


  Astonished at the voice he stood amaz'd,
  And all around with inward horror gaz'd.

                                          ADDISON.

VOL. I.


LONDON:
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM LANE,
AT THE
Minerva Press
LEADENHALL-STREET.
M.DCC.XCVI.




FRONTISPIECE

[Illustration: Drawing of Bungay Castle]




BUNGAY CASTLE




TO
THE MOST NOBLE
CHARLES DUKE OF NORFOLK,
WHOSE URBANITY AND PHILANTHROPY
MUST EVER REFLECT
ADDITIONAL HONOURS
ON THE NAME OF
HOWARD;
BY WHOSE NOBLE FAMILY
BUNGAY CASTLE
WAS POSSESSED FOR MANY CENTURIES;
THE FOLLOWING PAGES
ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,
BY HIS GRACE'S MOST OBEDIENT,
AND VERY HUMBLE SERVANT,
ELIZ. BONHOTE.

Bungay, 1797.




INTRODUCTION.


Castle-Building appears to have been the passion of all ages; while
some have been raising their fabrics on the most solid and lasting
foundations, others have been forming them in the air, where the
structure has been erected with infinitely less trouble, as their own
invention led them to wish, and very pleasant, no doubt, was the
delusion of the moment.

It is now the prevailing taste to read wonderful tales of wonderful
castles; to recall them from the [* Missing words here ]
ages, and represent them as the novelist finds most suitable to the
circumstances of his tale. In times like these, every book that serves
to amuse the mind, and withdraw the attention from scenes of real
distress, without inflaming the passions, or corrupting the heart,
must surely be as acceptable to the reader as it may have been found
pleasant to the writer, and should exempt the latter from the severity
of criticism. Under the influence of this opinion, the Author of the
following sheets has been tempted to send them into the world. She
might, indeed, to evade the danger of having her work condemned,
pretend to have found it in some recess of her favourite ruins, or
to have discovered it artfully concealed in the bottom of an old
chest, in so defaced and mutilated a condition, as to have rendered
it a very difficult and laborious task to collect the fragments and
modernize the language: but the writer of these pages has not been
so fortunate; and, had she attempted to assert so marvellous a
circumstance, she could not have expected any miss of fifteen would
have been credulous enough to believe her.

The thought of publishing a novel, under the title given to these
volumes, has long been her intention,--a thought which originated
from her living within the distance of twenty yards from those
venerable ruins, which still attract the attention of the stranger
and the curious. Often in early youth had she climbed their loftiest
summits, and listened with pleased and captivated attention to the
unaccountable tales related by the old and superstitious, and
considered as real by herself and her inexperienced companions.--In
one place, it was said the ghost of an ancient warrior, clad in armour,
took his nightly round to reconnoitre scenes endeared by many a tender
claim. In another, a lovely female form had been seen to glide along,
and was supposed to disappear on the very spot where it was imagined
her lover had fallen a victim to the contentions of the times.

    "Her face was like an April sky
     Dimm'd by a scatt'ring cloud;
     Her clay-cold lily hand, knee-high,
     Held up her sable shroud."

All these circumstances added strength to a romantic turn of mind,
which acquired additional force from a love of reading the old
romances, and this propensity for the marvellous was for some time
indulged in the midst of scenes which afforded ample scope for the
creative excursions of fancy. After having left her paternal dwelling
many years, she is again replaced in it by some of those changes
which so frequently occur in the progress of human life; and has
purchased the little spot of ground on which stands the principal part
of all that now remains of Bungay Castle, and which, though a mere
heap of unconnected ruins, are still so venerable as to excite, in
the feeling and thoughtful mind, a sympathetic regret at the
instability of human grandeur and the weakness of human strength.

Among these ruins, once the property, and, in all probability, the
temporary residence, of the noble house of Norfolk, cottages are now
built, and inhabited by many poor families, and those very walls,
which perhaps sheltered royalty, are now the supporters of miserable
hovels. Such are the awful effects of time, and the unaccountable
revolutions it produces!

But, were it in the Author's power as much as it is her inclination,
she would adorn their venerable remains with all the flowers of spring,
and the tempting treasures of autumn should surround them. The
jessamine and honey-suckle should clasp them in their embraces, and
the tendrils of the vine and the fig-tree should encircle and decorate
them with their luscious sweets. She would, on the loftiest corner of
their remains, build herself a little hut, in which she could sit and
contemplate the variegated scenes around. She would reverse the order
of things, and render them as lovely and beautiful in age, as they
were grand and magnificent before time had robbed them of those
envied and valuable properties which it cannot restore.

Being again in the habit of spending many leisure hours in this
favourite spot, endeared to her for bringing to remembrance the
enlivening scenes of youth, and, having opportunities to pursue her
sedentary amusements, she determined to accomplish her design, seeing
no reason why Bungay Castle should not be as good a foundation for
the structure of a novel as any other edifice within or without the
kingdom. But, as so many ages are elapsed since this Castle was reared,
and since time and death have swept away with ruthless hand almost
every vestige of what it once was, she has to lament, and so perhaps
may her readers, that she was furnished for this employment with no
other materials than the scanty portion her own imagination afforded.
She has borrowed some real names, and she hopes the characters she
has introduced will be found neither disgusting nor unnatural. But,
as Solomon so many centuries ago declared, there was nothing _new_
under the sun, she cannot surely be condemned for not producing new
characters, nor blamed if any contained in this work resemble those
of the present day; and, though in the reigns of our first sovereigns,
and many of their successors, the customs and manners of the people
were somewhat different, she is convinced the world was in many
instances just the same. The same virtues, vices, and passions,
degraded or ennobled human nature; and, though delicacy, sensibility,
and refinement might be less known, and not so frequently mentioned,
they no doubt retained as proper and powerful an influence over the
mind. Love too, that invincible and all-subduing passion, implanted
in the heart of man from the beginning of the world, was as generally
known and acknowledged by the king and the peasant, the hero and
the coward.

This painfully leads to an observation, which, while it is humiliating,
has too much truth for its foundation to admit of dispute, that,
though the same vices which disgrace the present times were practised
in the earliest ages, more pains were then taken to conceal them from
public observation, and the conduct, of which the modern fine gentleman
or avowed debauchee will now proudly boast, would then have been
considered as sufficient to stamp the character with indelible infamy.
By our unfashionable progenitors modesty was distinguished and admired
as the most becoming ornament of woman; adultery was punished, and
seduction held in contempt; the artful betrayer of unsuspecting
innocence was pointed at by the finger of derision, and the victim
of baseness compelled to conceal her shame either in the shades of
retirement or the seclusion of a nunnery. We may justly lament, if
we are not permitted to condemn, that in this respect the present age
is not quite so sensitive, and may shed the tear of regret at being
so often forced to look down with pity, when we meet, at almost every
corner of our streets, the unblushing front of degraded beauty, and
our ears are shocked with the execrations of profligacy from lips
that in early life had been taught to speak a language as pure as
their own uncontaminated hearts.

The author of these pages has not attempted to enter on the politics
of the past or present times. Had she ever cherished such a design,
the sentiments of one of the first* and most interesting writers this
age has produced, would instantly have determined her to decline her
intention, but she had ever thought that so heterogeneous a mixture
was not likely to please the taste of many readers, and that a novel
was never intended as a vehicle for politics, any farther than it
was necessary for the elucidation of the story. Firmly attached to
her King, perfectly satisfied with our laws and constitution, and
grateful to heaven for being permitted to live under so mild and just
a government. In a country where freedom and plenty have hitherto
taken their stations, and shed their most benign influence, she will
ever remain contented to leave politics and the affairs of state to
be settled by better, wiser, and more experienced heads.

[Footnote:* Mr. Cumberland]

Gentle reader, we will now enter upon a story, of whose origin you
are informed. If any, who sit down to read it with minds tortured by
mental or bodily diseases, should find a temporary relief from misery
or languor, the Author will consider it as a luxuriant reward for
her employment. If, on the contrary, they should be disappointed, or
dissatisfied, she sincerely wishes they may meet a more agreeable
entertainment from the next publication thrown in their way.

To the Reviewers she takes this opportunity of publicly making her
acknowledgements for the liberality and candour they have invariably
shewn to her former publications; and, though she has never had the
satisfaction of being personally known to any one of them, she has
for many years considered them as friends.




CHAP. I


During the bloody period of the Barons' wars, when civil discord threw
her fire-brands around, to lay waste and make desolate the fertile
plains and fruitful fields of this long envied country; when the widow
mourned the husband torn from her embraces, and the orphan wandered
friendless and unprotected; when brother waged war against brother,
and the parent raised his arm to destroy the son he had reared and
cherished; when every castle was kept in a state of the most guarded
defence, lest it should be wrested from its owner by the ambition
and enmity of his neighbour:--then it was that _Bungay Castle_ reared
its proud towers and battlements aloft; while its massy walls stood
in gloomy and majestic grandeur, as if they could bid defiance to
every design formed against them by man, and to the more certain
influence of all-conquering time; so perfectly stupendous and strong
was this once-spacious edifice, it was not only an object of desire
to the proud and aspiring barons, but, it has been said, even to
contending kings.

The noble and loyal lord of this castle, being called upon to fill
some important office in the service of the state, appointed Sir
Philip de Morney to be governor during his absence, and never had he
shewn the goodness of his heart and the excellence of his judgment
more than in the delegation of his power and authority over so
numerous a train of vassals and dependents to this his bosom friend.

Sir Philip de Morney was a bold and hardy veteran: he was grown
grey in the service of his king and country; brave in the field,
just, merciful, and benevolent, in his dealings with all his
fellow-creatures,--possessed of an abundant fortune, he accepted this
important trust to oblige his friend, and promote the happiness of
those to whom he knew he was attached;--fond of an active and useful
life, he wished not to sink into indolence or obscurity, till the
infirmities of age should render him incapable of taking his share
in the busy scenes of that important period, in which, though the
pernicious doctrine of equality did not influence the minds of the
vulgar against their lawful sovereign, or the rights of the subject,
the ambition of the nobility, and the feuds and distraction of the
contending parties, produced scenes of misery equally distressing,
but happily not so extensive in their effects.

Into Bungay Castle he removed with his whole family, and there for
some years found that happiness he had vainly sought in more
enlivening scenes; and there he tasted those serene and contented
pleasures he had been unable to procure in the world; though formed
to make a brilliant figure on its great stage, he had every endowment
of the mind for the true enjoyment of domestic life, uniting with
the most unshaken courage the gentlest philanthropy. He had married
at the age of thirty-five a lady much younger than himself, by whom
he had several children, and looked forward with the hope of being
the parent of a more numerous offspring, while, like the patriarchs
of old, he lived respected and revered in the bosom of his family.
Ah! little did he suspect the revolution ambition would one day make
in his mind.

Lady de Morney was yet in the pride of life; her beauty unfaded, her
spirits lively, and her mind in its full vigour; her person was
lovely, her disposition amiable: sweetness, modesty, truth, and
fortitude, were the inmates of her bosom, and gave additional graces
to the ease and elegance of her manners; strictly exemplary in
performing the important duties of wife and mother, no complaints
were heard where she presided; no looks of discontent were seen on
the countenance of her dependents; time was neither abused nor found
a burden; her whole study and attention were employed to promote the
happiness of her husband, and to superintend the education of her
children; for the latter employment no one was more adequate than
herself,--her own example serving more than precept to enforce the
lessons of truth on the ductile mind of youth; her own gentleness
made them happy, while her conduct convinced them of the value and
dignity of virtue.

She considered youth and innocence as the most valuable of earthly
treasures, and she was not more anxious to preserve the one in all
its native purity, than to teach them how to enjoy the other with
cheerfulness and gratitude: Having stored their minds with virtuous
precepts, best calculated to chain the attention, and which she
hoped would lay the most solid foundation for securing their future
happiness, she lived with her children in habits of the most
soothing and perfect friendship, and very seldom was under the
unpleasant necessity of assuming the stern authority of a
dictatorial parent.

But, as no character on earth can be found without having some of
the weakness and frailty of erring mortality annexed to it, the
author does not mean to present Lady de Morney to their view as a
being entirely faultless. She was vain of her high birth, being allied
to nobility; and so partial to her eldest son, that she could scarcely
suffer him to be out of her sight; yet her partiality originated from
a circumstance so interesting and affecting to all who knew it, that,
though it might by some be considered as a weakness, it was by none
but herself condemned as a fault. When her son was in his infancy,
she was seized with a fever of so malignant a nature, as deprived
her for some weeks of her senses: during this distressing period of
her delirium, and in the absence of her nurse, she one day snatched
the infant from the arms of a young woman, his attendant, and, before
any one was aware of her design, ran out of the house, and with almost
incredible swiftness down a long gravel walk to the bottom of the
garden, and threw him into a lake, by which it was bounded. By the
fortunate and timely assistance of an old and faithful servant, who
was luckily at work near the spot, and who had hastened to it on
seeing his lady so unexpectedly make her appearance, the family were
alarmed, and the child providentially, but with difficulty, saved.

This incident, of which she was unguardedly informed, made so forcible
an impression on the mind of this susceptible and affectionate parent,
as she could not shake off: it created an additional claim upon her
heart for every tender indulgence, and gave to every juvenile action
and good quality redoubled value. He had in a manner been raised from
death, rescued from a watery grave, into which her own, a mother's,
hand had hurled him; and yet he loved her, as her fond and plaintive
partiality led her often to imagine, better than the rest of her
children. She would sometimes embrace this darling son, and, with
all the enthusiasm of maternal tenderness, tremble at the horrid
remembrance of having so nearly deprived him of an existence that
added so much to the happiness of her own. To all her children Lady
de Morney was an indulgent parent; but for Edwin she felt that
indescribable fondness which not only threw a veil over his failings,
but robbed her of that fortitude and energy with which she acted on
all other occasions. So far from attempting to deny any request he
made, it was her study to prevent his wishes. She would at times
apologize to the rest of her children for the extreme affection
nature had implanted, and which she could not help cherishing for
their brother, but which she regretted as a weakness she was unable
to conquer. This conduct served to reconcile the young people to a
partiality which originated from so singular and awful an incident,
and, so far from shewing either envy or regret, it seemed to endear
their mother's favourite to their youthful and guileless hearts.
Another circumstance, which equally helped to reconcile them, was
the sweetness of Edwin's disposition, who as often availed himself
of his mother's indulgence to gratify and make them happy, as he did
to obtain any of her favours for himself.

In a situation from which thousands of her sex and age would have
shrunk disgusted and affrighted, Lady de Morney was cheerful and
contented. The rooms were Gothic and gloomy, but her husband and
children enlivened every place they inhabited. She was at times
surrounded by and exposed to dangers; but her beloved De Morney and
his faithful people were ever near to protect and guard her. She was
the wife of a noble soldier, and she had acquired a fortitude almost
equal to his from the knowledge of his unfailing courage, which
gained energy from danger, and redoubled ardour from difficulty.

The castle itself could boast few internal beauties, but her
children, whom she saw playful as youthful fawns, and happy as health,
innocence, and unbroken spirits, could make them, were treasures
inexhaustible: they beheld the rough implements of war without terror
or dismay, instructed by their father to consider them as the only
ornaments fitted for a soldier. The young De Morneys were taught the
use of arms as soon as they had learned to walk.

Seldom were the Gothic gates of the castle unbarred to admit the
social friend or gay companion to the festive board; seldom did the
voice of mirth and jollity echo through the lofty rooms and vaulted
passages; but a sweet serenity supplied their place, which, having
lost during the absence of her husband, at an early period of her
marriage, Lady de Morney now felt the full value of possessing; and,
though secluded from the gaudy pleasure of a court, she felt herself
a gainer by the exchange in the balance of happiness.--Lady de Morney
had a sister, who was placed by the Lady Gundreda as superior in the
nunnery of Bungay; with her she spent many of her leisure hours:
between them the tenderest friendship strengthened the endearing ties
in which they were united by nature.

The abbess was a pious, but yet she was a young and interesting
woman, of a benevolent and placid disposition; and, though she had
voluntarily secluded herself from the world, she was not so much
disgusted with its pleasures as she felt herself wounded by the
severity of its disappointments.--Early in life, death had deprived
her of a lover who had engaged her most animated and ardent affection,
and with whom she had indulged the fond hope of being united in the
indissoluble bands of Hymen; but adverse fate had ordained it
otherwise, and those virtues and good qualities which had made him
inexpressibly dear to her, rendered his loss the more exquisitely
painful. With him the world lost all its power to charm, and she
resolutely determined to fly that world for ever, and never to permit
another lover to displace the sainted Henry from her heart; she
therefore unreluctantly withdrew from the varying and busy scenes
of life,--not to avoid temptation, but to be able to indulge, in the
gloomy shades of a nunnery, the memory of a man, to whose worth and
constancy she deemed no sacrifice too great. Time served to convince
her of the wisdom of her choice; and, giving way to all the luxury
of a pure but romantic imagination, she encouraged the consoling
hope, that, if her regretted Henry were permitted to know what was
acting in this lower world, his spirit would be gratified by the
purity of her choice, and his heart convinced of the unabating
strength of her affection. She often flattered herself that her Henry
was deputed to watch her conduct, and would be the first to convey
her to the bright regions of immortality; yet, though thus severely
tried in the lessons of affliction, she troubled no one with a
repetion of her sorrows; and, though she often wept in all the
bitterness of anguish, her tears fell when no one observed them, and
only to the ear of her sympathizing sister did she venture to mention
a name so dear and so beloved.

Young Edwin de Morney, whom we have already mentioned, was at this
period in his seventeenth year, and, notwithstanding the unbounded
indulgence of his mother, he had made a rapid proficiency in every
part of his education. Nature had been equally liberal of her favours
to his mind and person: his temper was good,--his manners and
conversation those of the gentleman and the scholar, and, with all
the interesting gaiety and natural cheerfulness of youth, he united
a benevolent and susceptible heart.

His eldest sister, Roseline, was only one year younger than himself;
her form was small, but symmetry itself, every limb so nicely turned,
it would have been chosen by a statuary for the model of a Venus:
her face was beautiful in the extreme; her eyes expressive and
sparkling, and the smile which shewed itself was of that irresistible
kind as caught the attention and won the heart; and it would have
been difficult for a connoisseur in beauty to point out which feature
it was that had the greatest claim to admiration, while the unfading
and fascinating beauties of her polished mind, which was stored
with all the graces the best education could bestow, or the most
lively genius acquire, rendered her conversation as delightful as
her manners were captivating. She played on the lute, and warbled
her artless song in strains so sweet, as would have rivalled the
daughters of Italy. Her heart, unwounded by the barbed thorn of
affliction, and free from the entanglements of love, was like one
of the first days of infant-spring, which, enlivened by the bright
rays of an unclouded and all-cheering sun, serves not only to revive,
but to embellish the whole face of inanimate nature, just bursting
into life, and rendering all its sweetly modest beauties of redoubled
value to those who had lingered through a dreary winter, in eager
expectation of its approach. Lively as the birds which hovered round
the turrets of the castle, she entered gaily into all the youthful
sports of her brothers and sisters. To the little blooming Edeliza
she was particularly attached; and, though she saw her as beautiful
as herself, felt neither envy nor regret in the reflection. No modish
complaints filled her with imaginary terrors, and, as she had known
no sorrows, she thought it not only incumbent on her to shew her
gratitude to heaven and her parents, but to soften, by every
benevolent attention in her power, the miseries and misfortunes
of others.

In those days, the education of young women was completed at a more
early period than in the present; and, if the manners were not
altogether so highly finished, or the mind so profusely decorated,
or rather fettered, with innumerable, and, to too many, useless
accomplishments, the time was undoubtedly more rationally employed,
and the fair sex less exposed to the allurements of flattery and the
dangers of temptation: though more retired in their habits, and
reserved in their manners, they were neither less susceptible of the
tender passions, nor less fervent or sincere in their attachments.

Roseline had formed an early friendship with a young lady educated
in the Bungay nunnery, of which her aunt, fortunately for the young
people, was the superior. This sweet victim of ambition was designed
by a proud and haughty father for the monastic life, in order to
enable him to provide more liberally for the rest of the children.
She had not yet however entered on the year of her novitiate; but
it was soon to commence, and, at its awful close, she was to bid a
final adieu to that world, to which her heart had of late become too
tenderly and anxiously attached. As it approached, time seemed to
wing his flight with redoubled rapidity, and she felt a trembling
dread that her fortitude, like a false friend, would forsake her in
the hour of trial, and a trembling presentiment that the moment,
which shut her from the society at the castle, would exclude her
from every prospect of happiness; yet this repugnance to obey the
will of her parents was new to her mind:--she dared not investigate
the cause too nicely, lest she should find a subject for
self-condemnation. She found, with painful regret, a troublesome
guest was admitted to her bosom, and she was afraid, in attempting
to become more intimately acquainted with its prevailing influence,
she should permit the stranger to gain greater ascendancy.

The youthful Madeline, on her first entrance into the nunnery, had
neither felt nor shewn any discontent: she had assumed the formal
and unbecoming habit without a sigh, and yielded to the rigid rules
prescribed with uncomplaining resignation; but, as time crept on
with solemn and leaden pace, unrelieved by any of the innocent
amusements of social life, only to repeat and bring forward the same
dull round of gloomy and mortifying scenes, not only repugnant to
the feelings of nature, but disgusting to the senses, she began to
think and to complain to the bosom of friendship, that those fetters,
put on by the rigid will of unfeeling parents, to be finally closed
by the iron laws of bigotry and superstition, were unjust and galling,
and the free-born soul of innocence and virtue drooped and pined
beneath the sacred walls by which it was inclosed;--how cruel to make
religion a pretext for such persecution and misery, and to counteract
the designs of the Creator, who never formed his creatures for
seclusion from that world in which he had profusely strewn so many
blessings for the enjoyment of rational and social beings!

Roseline, by the urgency of her entreaties, frequently obtained
leave of the abbess for Madeline de Glanville to visit at the castle.
This favour was the more readily granted, from her having observed
with real regret that some secret grief preyed on the mind of her
young charge, which, though she could not help commiserating, she
did not choose to mention. Those days, which the fair Madeline spent
at the castle, were the happiest she had ever known; while there,
she was gay and cheerful as the youthful companions who studied to
amuse and entertain her. The song, the dance, the lute, drove from
her remembrance the gloomy nunnery in which she was condemned to
waste and linger out her future life.

Sir Philip and Lady de Morney treated her with the tenderness and
indulgence of parents; the friendship and affection between her and
Roseline was mutual and sincere; for Edwin she felt, as she innocently
supposed, the fond regard of a sister. All the younger branches of
the De Morney family rejoiced to see her, and gladly assisted in
rendering her happy; and when the hour arrived for the unfortunate
Madeline to return to the nunnery, whilst she observed with secret
gratitude the gloom it threw on the countenances of her friends, it
gave additional pangs to the feelings of her own heart; her spirits
instantly deserted her, and tears of unfeigned regret marked the sad
moment of departure. When she re-entered her solitary cell, she would
sink into a despondency which the austere rules of the order was not
likely to conquer.

The inhabitants of the castle and its environs were in themselves a
little commonwealth, which contained a vast variety of characters.
Men of different nations were met together, and, by the unaccountable
effects of accident, ambition, or necessity, brought into the same
habits, and lived cordially together, serving one master; and, united
by one cause and interest, the utmost harmony prevailed among them;
for Sir Philip de Morney was a just and active governor; gentle as
the lamb and forgiving as mercy to the virtuous or injured,--but a
terror and a stern master to the traitor or oppressor, whether friend
or foe: he knew the importance of his situation, and how much the
happiness of others depended on the careful and faithful discharge
of those duties belonging to his high station, and intrusted to him
by his noble friend the Earl of Norfolk; he therefore wisely and
justly determined not to be biassed nor misled, either by the
partiality or designs of other men, nor to suffer any prejudice to
gain ascendancy over his mind in the rewards he bestowed, or the
punishments which guilt would sometimes compel him to inflict.




CHAP. II


In the middle of a cold and inclement winter's night, when the wind
blew with uncontrolable force, and the snow, rain, and hail beat with
fury against the window, every instant breaking some of the few panes
which admitted a scanty light into the interior apartments, and
threatened to demolish those of the state-rooms, while nature
appeared to shudder at this unusual warring of the elements, the
centinels on guard were alarmed by a loud rapping at the western
gate, and the rumbling of a carriage, with the clattering of horses'
hoofs was distinctly heard. For some moments the people stood
irresolute; at length one of the soldiers roughly inquired who it
was wanted admittance at so unseasonable an hour, when only treason
or treachery could be suspected.

A voice replied, "We are no traitors; we come with no hostile
intentions, but have brought dispatches of the utmost importance
to the governor, and must beg to be immediately admitted, as we are
in danger of perishing from fatigue and the severity of the weather."
This answer caused a general bustle; the governor was summoned, and
the troops, lodged within the interior parts of the castle, ordered
to arms before the gate was thrown open; nor were the strangers
permitted to enter till their number was ascertained, and the
soldiers prepared to oppose them should they have any bad designs
to accomplish by this strange and suspicious visit; but the alarm
soon subsided, and the soldiers almost tempted to laugh at their own
fears, when they saw a carriage draw up to the gate, guarded by about
twenty men, out of which they took a person who appeared quite
passive, and was so muffled up, that, in the hurry which was made
use of to convey him into the governor's apartment, it was impossible
to discover either his age or person. The governor, after reading
the dispatches, withdrew with the prisoner and two of the people,
who appeared to have the command and direction of this mysterious
expedition.--

Refreshments were ordered for the travellers, and beds made up for
them in the barracks; but the governor had a long conference with
the gentlemen before they separated. In the middle of the following
night they departed from the castle with as much secrecy, and as
little ceremony, as they had entered it, no one appearing desirous
to develop the cause which brought them, or daring to ask any
questions of the governor, in whose power alone it rested to satisfy
their inquiries, as at this time civil commotions and private feuds
between the contending nobles were continually arising to disturb
the peace of society, and involve the nation in accumulating
distresses; this strange visit was not only silently observed, but
in a few weeks scarcely recollected, even by those who had witnessed
it; and the guards, with only silent shrugs and significant looks,
thought it fastest, wisest, and best, to perform with exact attention
the discharge of their respective duties.

At this period of our tale, the joyous festival of Christmas was
approaching--a festival which our old-fashioned forefathers welcomed
with every mark of grateful and benevolent hospitality; and its
arrival was beheld with as much complacent and cordial hilarity by
the rich and great, as it was with delight and impatience by the poor
and needy. While the holly and mistletoe decorated the kitchens, and
the innocent joke went round, as the blushing maidens received the
compliments and good wishes of the season, the loaded tables served
still more to exhilirate their spirits, and even the stranger and
the beggar were invited to taste the good things they enjoyed.

The youthful inhabitants of the castle began to reckon with eager
and high-raised expectation the days, the hours, and even the minutes,
which must pass away before the lovely Madeline, who had obtained
permission of the abbess to spend the Christmas holidays at the
castle, could join their party. Various plans of pleasure were
formed, which they hoped would be productive of such amusements as
would amply gratify their own wishes, and those of their expected
visitors; for Agnes de Clifford, who was a boarder in the nunnery,
was to accompany Madeline, by whom and Roseline she was much beloved.
She was a lively interesting girl, about Miss de Morney's age, and,
next Madeline, held the highest place in her regard.

In realty, the young people at the castle were as much confined as
those in the nunnery from any intercourse with the world, Sir Philip
de Morney having a decided aversion to the introducing young people
early into life; but by the urgent entreaties of his lady, he was
now prevailed upon to relax from the strictness he had observed
respecting his elder children, four of whom felt a wish for a more
enlarged society; and, as their father had no design of placing any
of them in a religious retirement, it began to be time for them to
know something of that world in which, in all probability, they must
take an active part.

The holidays were spent in the utmost harmony; the festivity which
reigned in every part of the castle seemed to have banished sorrow
from its walls. The surgeon, captains, and lieutenants, were all of
their parties, and the evenings generally concluded with a dance:
their dependents were sometimes permitted to join the set, and the
good priest, Father Anselm, who attended the castle, would gladly
have been a partaker in their innocent amusements, had not the rigid
rules of his sacred order forbidden such relaxations.

A few days before the young ladies were to return to the nunnery,
Madeline was taken ill, and her disorder increased so rapidly, it
was not only thought dangerous, but found impracticable to remove
her with safety. For some weeks her life was despaired of, and, when
immediate danger was over, she was left in so weak and languid a
state, that air and exercise were pronounced absolutely necessary
to effect a perfect recovery. This sentence was heard with secret
delight by the suffering Madeline, as she was certain it would
procure leave for her longer continuance at the castle, and the
permission, when obtained, had more efficacy in restoring her, than
all the medicines she had taken during her illness. Edwin and
Roseline, much as they had suffered from the alarming indisposition
of their loved companion, rejoiced that it had been productive of
an indulgence they had almost despaired of gaining.

As the progress of her recovery was slow and precarious, many
symptoms of a decline being visible, every one was eager and anxious
to amuse the fair invalid, and none appeared more earnest in their
endeavours than Hubert de Willows, captain of the guard, a young man,
whose wit, vivacity, and unceasing good humour, had so strongly
recommended him to the favour and protection of the governor, as had
obtained him a constant invitation to his table. With a lively
imagination, he had a turn for satire, so pointed, that, while it
rendered him a most entertaining companion, kept many of his enemies
in awe, and he had the merit of never shewing his talents at the
expence of a friend, nor any worthy character; but he considered
vice and folly as fair game, against which he levelled his attacks.

Arthur de Clavering, the acting surgeon, was allowed both judgment
and humanity. The practice of physic and surgery was then but
obscurely known, compared with the more enlightened practioners of
these days. De Clavering, however, patched up many a broken
constitution. People lived as long, and had fewer diseases, than has
been the lot of succeeding generations, but, whether this is owing
to chance or folly, I leave wiser heads to determine.

Arthur de Clavering was rather an extraordinary character; his person
was neither tall nor short; of a thin habit; had a countenance so
pleasing, and eyes so penetrating, it was impossible not to be struck
with him, as something beyond the common race of mortals. He had been
abroad, had read much, was acquainted with both men and manners, had
a plain and rather awkward address, was singular in his expressions,
and formed his opinions with a justness and rapidity that astonished
those with whom he associated; told a number of good anecdotes with
a delicacy and humour peculiar to himself; public places and general
society he avoided so cautiously, that he was considered as a
misanthrope by those who did not know him intimately.

Lieutenant de Huntingfield was a Humourous bachelor of forty: he
professed himself an admirer of the ladies, and pretended to lament
that the state of his finances would not permit him to take a wife
to his bosom, and increase the ancient family of the De Huntingfields,
which, he apprehended, if fortune proved averse to his accomplishing,
would become extinct.

Among the rest of the officers was a Cambrian youth, who was a
general favourite in the castle. Hugh Camelford was gay, high
spirited, thoughtless, and extravagant; but with all so generous and
good humoured, it was impossible not to be pleased even with his
eccentricities; he rode good horses, gave good dinners, and was
always in good spirits. De Clavering and Hugh Camelford were the best
friends in the world. The doctor, as he was generally called, had
once, during some indisposition, advised him to be bled; but the
fiery youth would neither follow his advice nor submit to his
entreaties: he was then threatened with death for his obstinacy.

"In Cot's cood time I am ready to die, (said the invalid;) but, if
ever I lose one drop of my Welch bloot, put in the service of my
country, may my coot name be plasted with the titles of poltroon
and coward!"--He saved his Welch blood, and recovered, and De
Clavering, though at first somewhat displeased, treated him as a
friend and brother ever afterwards.

There was a still more singular character in the castle than any yet
described,--Alexander Elwyn. He was placed there as a school for
improvement in tactics and all the relative duties of a soldier: he
had good connexions, and a genteel allowance; but was a miser at
twenty. This sordid humour made him the butt of the garrison, and
De Willows, with the rest of the officers, vowed to laugh him out
of a habit as disgusting as it was unnatural and unnecessary.

In a few weeks Madeline was so far recovered, as to be removed into
one of the state-apartments for the benefit of air; an adjoining room
was likewise fitted up for Roseline, to sleep near her friend during
her confinement. They generally parted from their attendants as soon
as the rest of the family retired. Being one night earnestly chatting
over some occurrence that had afforded them pleasure, they were
alarmed by footsteps under their apartment, and a low murmuring
sound of voices indistinctly reached their ears. Madeline was a good
deal frightened, but Roseline, who had great presence of mind, and
more courage, made, or rather appeared to make, very light of the
matter, telling her friend the rooms they occupied were, she knew,
connected with some passages and offices belonging to the castle,
and she doubted not but the noise proceeded from the people on duty.
This, in some degree, abated the fears of Madeline, till, after a
profound silence of half an hour, they heard a deep groan, followed
by the rattling of chains; at the same instant one of the windows
flew open with the greatest violence, and as instantly closed again,
which was followed by the bell at the corner of the room ringing
violently.

Madeline gave a faint scream; Roseline jumped out of bed, and ran
for some water, supposing she would have a fainting fit; but she
gently put it aside, and with wild affright inquired what was the
matter, and what could occasion the unaccountable noises they had
heard. "The wind, and the people in some of the lower apartments;
no doubt, (replied her friend;) therefore I beg you would not
discompose yourself; if you do, you will compel me to disturb the
family, and that I am afraid would displease my father; and, in all
probability, Edwin would ridicule our childish fears, and the rest
of the gentlemen would laugh at us."

This silenced Madeline, and Roseline continued: "I am totally
unacquainted with many parts of this castle. I have two of three
times wished to explore its secret passages, look at the dungeons,
and visit all its subterranean contrivances, but have been forbidden
by my father. Edwin did once promise to shew me how well we were
secured from outward danger by the immense strength of the
fortifications, and equally secure of a retreat, should the castle
be attacked; but he cautioned me not to give a hint of his design,
either to my father or mother, not to drop a word of his intentions
before my brothers or sisters. Eager as I was to have my curiosity
satisfied, your illness, my dear girl, and the pleasure we counted
of partaking during our visit, drove it from my mind; but I will take
the earliest opportunity of claiming my brother's promise."

"Agreed, (cried Roseline;) you and I, my dear Madeline, have yet seen
too little of life to be weary of it, and I trust our hearts are both
too guiltless to have any fears of those supernatural appearances, of
which superstition and ignorance give such improbable accounts."

"Yet I have heard strange tales of this castle being haunted, even
in the retired recess to which my adverse fate had in all
probability doomed me to spend my hapless days, and---"

"You are too much inclined to believe them, (interrupted her friend;)
but, my dear Madeline, be assured of this,--if we had nothing more
to fear from the living than we have to apprehend from the dead, we
should be perfectly secure, and our lives would pass away in a more
serene and placid manner than the turbulent wills of our
fellow-mortals will allow. Hark! I am sure I hear the soft and distant
sound of a lute. I never yet knew a ghost that had a taste for
Mortal harmony."

"I certainly hear music, (sighed Madeline;) from what place can it
proceed?--Surely it must be---"

"The amusement, no doubt, of some one either on the ramparts or in
the cells; for you have fluttered my spirits so much, I cannot
determine from what part of the castle the sound can reach us: let
us, however, rest satisfied, that no ghosts would trouble themselves
to play a midnight serenade in order to terrify those who could never
have injured them. Let us wait till you are quite recovered before
we mention a word of the occurrences of this night; for, were my
father to hear of our alarm, we should be instantly removed into
other apartments, and should not then be able to accomplish our
purpose of exploring the intricate recesses of this castle. Good
night, Madeline; I hope the musician will not cease his harmony till
he has lulled us to repose."

She then jumped into her own bed; but her spirits were not altogether
in that composed and courageous state she wished her friend to
imagine. She had heard strange stories of lights being seen, of
ghosts gliding along the ramparts, of noises being heard; but, as
she had not been told of a ghostly musician, she was inclined to hope
it would, by some means or other, be explained to her satisfaction.

Till the rising sun, however, peeped over the hills which bounded
the view from her windows, she could not rest; she then sunk into
repose, and slept so soundly, that it was with difficulty her sister,
Edeliza, could convince her that the family waited breakfast till she
should be in the humour to join them. Madeline took her's in bed.
Roseline hurried on her clothes, and Lady de Morney tenderly inquired
if indisposition had prevented her rising at her usual hour.
complaining of not having slept till late satisfied all parties, and,
after a gentle reproof from Sir Philip, and a joke from Edwin for
hugging her pillow so long, the subject was dropped.

The next day was fixed for Madeline to join the family at dinner, for
the first time since her long and alarming illness. De Clavering, De
Willows, and Hugh Camelford, were invited to be of the party on this
joyous occasion, and it was with the utmost difficulty that Edwin de
Morney could conceal the rapture he felt in his bosom at the thought
of seeing the fair nun once more among them. He had ventured, with
the consent of Roseline, to make her several stolen visits, and in
those moments of rapturous delight had discovered that Madeline de
Glanville reigned sole mistress of his heart. Too young for the
practice of deceit, too sanguine and inexperienced to think of the
consequence of loving one devoted to the service of her God, he
flattered himself the partial indulgence of his mother would enable
him to conquer any difficulties thrown in his way, wither by his
father, or the designs Madeline's parents had formed for her future
destination. He likewise cherished the sweet hope that Madeline would
not be averse to accept him as a lover. His own heart had taught him
to read the language of the eyes, and in her's he saw, or thought he
saw, joy sparkle at his approach, and a soft sadness overcloud them
at his departure.

The party met at dinner. Madeline entered the room, leaning on the
supporting arm of Edwin, and followed by Roseline. Never, in the
full bloom of youth and health, had the fair invalid looked so
inexpressibly lovely. A faint blush tinged her cheek upon receiving
the congratulations of the company on her recovery. The doctor
humourously declared he was entitled to their thanks for the
resurrection of their friend.

"A resurrection, methinks, it is in reality, (said de Willows;) 'for
the mortal seems to have put on immortality,' and to have brought
down from heaven the beauty and form of an angel."

"Hey day! (cried Sir Philip;) why, good people, you all seem to be
taking vast pains to make my sweet nun believe a language you
yourselves do not seem perfectly to understand. That we are all glad
to see her restored to us I hope and trust she believes; but our
congratulations must convince her, notwithstanding your high-flown
compliments, that she is a mere mortal, like the rest of her sex."

"Not exactly like some of them, (said the doctor;) for, if she were,
De Willows would not look at her as if he had a mind to seize the
precious morsel from mother-church."

This sally produced a hearty laugh from all but Edwin and Lady de
Morney, who, seeing the conversation was become distressing to her
young friend, summoned them to sit down to dinner.

"In Cot's name, (cried Camelford,) let us obey orders, for I feel
myself all mortal at sight of Sir-loin, who is as coot and
entertaining a knight as any on this side the Welch mountains."

"Excellent, faith! (exclaimed De Clavering;) and you look at him
with as much pleasure as a goat would at a field of young grass,
or as Edwin at his sister Roseline."

Edwin at this moment was gazing at Madeline with an earnestness
that struck the doctor, and he took this method of withdrawing his
attention from an object which he considered might prove dangerous
to the peace of his young friend, to whom he was most sincerely and
affectionately attached.

The day was spent with all that serene harmony which attends the
society of friends. Madeline's return to the social party was like
that of one having been so long absent, that little hope was
entertained of ever meeting again. She retired to her room at an
early hour, accompanied by Roseline; and the progress of her recovery,
though slow, was so visible, as in a few days to remove all anxious
fears from every heart but that of the impassioned Edwin, that no
further danger was to be apprehended from the effects of the fever.

For more than a week the young ladies heard nothing to disturb them.
They were lodged at a great distance from the rest of the family,
and Roseline, having informed her brother of Madeline's fears, he
had requested his mother to let him sleep in that wing of the castle,
lest Madeline should be taken ill in the night, and his sister under
the necessity of leaving her to call assistance. His request was
granted, at the same time he received his mother's commendations and
thanks for this prudent precaution.




CHAP. III


During the time that De Willows was cherishing an increasing affection
for Madeline, the youthful Edeliza, now in the sixteenth year, was in
a situation more distressing. She had long been accustomed to consider
De Willows in the light of a playfellow, and to be gratified by his
almost undivided attention, while to him her's was wholly confined.
With Camelford she would sometimes romp, if De Willows were absent,
but, as soon as he returned, she would fly to him, and complain of the
young lieutenant's having wearied her by playing too roughly.

Love even with the inexperienced is generally quick-fighted. Edeliza
had observed, with a kind of trembling apprehension, and a fear she
knew not how to account for, the attentions De Willows paid to
Madeline. She was angry,--she was shocked,--thought her not half so
handsome as she once had been, and wondered what the gentlemen could
see to admire in so ghostly a figure; her brother, De Clavering,
Hugh Camelford, and Elwyn, might make as much fuss as they pleased
about the beautiful nun, as they chose to call her, that De Willows
should be so blind, so provoking, she could not bear to recollect;
however, as she would soon be obliged to return to the nunnery, she
hoped De Willows would then forget she had ever left it, and recover
his senses.

Thus was the little blind god, who had been the delight and the
torment of all ages, beginning to play cross purposes at the castle,
and aiming his arrows at hearts too innocent to guard against or
repel their attacks. De Willows had ever admired Edeliza as a
beautiful and interesting child; he had been in the habit of seeing
her, from the time she was ten years old, every day; therefore her
progress towards womanhood had passed in a manner unperceived, and
he had indulged himself and his little favourite in the same fond
and playful endearments as had taken place from the first of their
meeting, and that without forming an idea of there being either
danger or impropriety in so doing. Had any one informed De Willows
that Edeliza was cherishing a growing affection for him, which, if
unreturned, would endanger her future peace, he would have treated
it as the idle chimera of their own whimsical brain; but, had he once
seriously supposed he was destroying her happiness, and planting the
thorn of anguish in her innocent bosom, his heart was so much the
seat of true honour, he would have stabbed in his own breast rather
than have acted unjustly by the daughter of his friend.

 It happened about this period that Sir Philip de Morney was obliged
to go to London in order to settle a law-suit which had been long
depending, and which had harassed his mind very much. De Huntingfield
was to take the command of the castle during his absence, being the
oldest officer in the place. De Willows, though of higher rank, was
too young to be entrusted with a charge of so much importance, and
gladly yielded the honour to one so much his superior in years. Sir
Philip departed with reluctance, took leave of his family with
tenderness, and promised to return the first moment after the affair
was settled.--Lady de Morney was reconciled to the temporary absence
of her husband by the important business which had called him away.

The young friends, having slept for several nights undisturbed, had
almost lost all remembrance of their fears before the departure of
Sir Philip, whose absence happened very opportunely to gratify their
curiosity in visiting every part of the castle, Edwin having promised
to procure the keys, and accompany them.

Two nights after Sir Philip's departure, having spent a cheerful
evening, they retired to rest in unusual good spirits, but were
awakened about midnight by a war of the elements, and what made the
scene more terrific, though it was in the depth of winter, the thunder
rolled in tremendous peals over their heads, the sturdy walls of the
castle appeared to shake from their centre to the battlements, and
the lightning flashed upon the walls, and gleamed along the vaulted
passages, as if to make horror visible. The young ladies dressed
themselves, and Edwin tapped at the door with a light, inviting
them to go down into one of the lower rooms, to which he would
accompany them.

Cheered and revived by the sound of his voice, they readily agreed
to his proposal, and in a few minutes opened the door to admit
their conductor. They made as little noise as possible, fearful of
disturbing Lady de Morney, if she was not already alarmed by the
tempest; and, to prevent the possibility of doing so, they agreed
to go down a winding staircase that led through one of the towers,
and which was seldom used by the family. They crept slowly along,
when, in one part of it, which was rather wider than the rest, they
passed four steps, which led to a door in the wall, and which
appeared so well secured by locks and bars, as if it never was
intended to be opened.

"For heaven's sake, (whispered Roseline,) to what room does that door
lead? I never saw it before."

"I entreat you (said the trembling Madeline) not to stop in this
horrid place to ask questions, (for the humid and unwholesome dews
of night and noxious vapours hung on the walls.) Though I am not
afraid now Edwin is with us, yet I may take cold by staying here."

Edwin pressed the hand which was resting on his arm to his throbbing
bosom, and hurried them into the room the family had left, and they
were all truly rejoiced to find an excellent fire still blazing on
the wide-extended hearth, round which they seated themselves, and
neither Madeline nor Edwin uttered a single complaint at having been
so unseasonably disturbed.

The tempest having spent it fury, subsided by degrees into a calm,
and the party, entering into conversation, almost forgot it had ever
been. Roseline however repeated her question respecting the door they
had seen in their way down the staircase. Edwin assured her he knew
no more than herself to what place it belonged: he had heard that
the restless ghost of some one had been bound in the apartments to
which it led, and that orders had been given for it never to be
opened. He had once made some inquiries of his father, but was
desired by him never to ask any questions till he came to years of
maturity, nor to explore any of the secret passages or entrances
to the castle.

"Then, surely, (said Madeline,) it would be extremely wrong to
disobey the commands of Sir Philip, merely to satisfy an idle and
perhaps blamable curiosity."

"At the moment (interrupted Edwin) that I admire the complying
sweetness of the gentle Madeline, I must beg pardon for retaining
my own resolution of seeing those parts of the castle from which I
have been so long secluded. I am now arrived at an age that surely
deserves to be trusted, or I must be unfit to live in a situation
like this. My father's reasons for the secresy he has observed so
long, I am unacquainted with; but I will most assuredly avail myself
of his absence to gratify my curiosity. I know where the keys are
deposited, and in a night or two will begin my nocturnal search. If
you and Roseline are in the humour to accompany me, it is well; if
not, I shall certainly go by myself."

"As that might be dangerous, (said Roseline, who rejoiced to find
him so resolute,) you must promise to take me along with you."

To this he assented, and Madeline agreed, with some little confusion,
to be of the party, concluding, Sir Philip must be wrong in not
granting his son's request. This matter settled, they retired for
the rest of the night, to forget, in the arms of sleep, not only the
castle and the nunnery, but the whole world.

The next night they were surprised by an unusual noise, that seemed
to be immediately under them. It appeared something like the rattling
of a carriage over stones. Groans too they thought they heard; and,
after dressing themselves, Roseline called her brother, to convince
him their alarms were not the effects of imagination. He heard the
same sounds, and, in looking round their apartment, and into an
adjoining closet, he discovered a trap-door, that was very curiously
concealed under a board, which slided over it. He attempted to lift
it up, but found it was secured by a lock which was hid in a small
projection of the wall.

Finding it impossible to obtain a passage, they determined to defer
their search till the succeeding night, when Edwin promised to secure
the keys. He stayed with them till daylight dissipated their fears;
they then retired to repose; but sleep deserted their pillows. A
thousand vague conjectures occupied their minds, and Madeline, for
the first time in her life, wished herself absent from the castle:
that there was something to discover appeared beyond a doubt; but,
whether the discovery would serve to relieve or increase their
anxiety, was as hazardous as it was uncertain; however, as Roseline
and Edwin were resolute to make the attempt, she determined not to
oppose them.

Edwin revolved in his mind how he might be able to find some clue to
guide him, and resolved to apply to an old soldier, whose whole life
had been spent in the castle, to give him some account respecting
it. He was fond of retracing past scenes, and, when once he began
talking, knew not when to stop. From him Edwin learned all he wanted
to be informed; by him he was told the use of the keys, and received
every necessary direction. The old man, considering himself honoured
by holding converse with the governor's son, told him every
circumstance he knew or could recollect. The next day was spent in
the same manner as usual. De Clavering was uncommonly facetious,
De Willows particularly cheerful, Hugh Camelford entertaining, and
De Huntingfield busy in the active duties of his important office.

The afternoon being remarkably clear, mild, and serene, the whole
party agreed to ascend to the top of the castle, and walk on the
ramparts, for the benefit of air and exercise. Edeliza would not quit
the arm of De Willows, therefore Madeline was left uninterrupted to
the care of Edwin.

The air was reviving, the prospect picturesque and interesting; for
notwithstanding the season, nature had still beauties to catch the
inquiring eye, and awaken the gratitude of innocent and cheerful
hearts. A few evergreens, scattered here and there among the leafless
trees afforded shelter to innumerable birds. The red breast warbled
his artless song, surrounded by a number of chirping sparrows, who
seemed gaily to flutter around, making a most uncommon bustle, which
was occasioned by a shower that had lately fallen.

"Confound these impertinent noisy little devils! (said De Clavering,)
I wish I had my gun, and I would most assuredly put an end to some
of this clatter."

"For shame, toctor, (cried Camelford;) what! would you testroy such
pretty harmless creatures as these? Rather save your ammunition for
the enemies of your king--that would be coot sport indeed!--then,
my man of mettle, we should be petter employed; but let the
sparrow-family lif, and enjoy their prating."

"I believe you are nearly allied to that same family, (replied the
doctor,) and therefore I do not wonder at your being anxious to
preserve your relations."

"Petter not provoke me, toctor. I am in a valiant humour just
now, and, as Cot shall pless me, I will not pocket an affront from
any one."

"Pack it up in your knapsack, (replied the doctor drily,) and say,
as our Saviour did, when tempted, "Get thee behind me, Satan!"--for
really Hugh, I often think the devil has jumped into your skull,
and, by kicking about your brains, has made you so hot headed."

"Then the best thing I can do (replied Camelford) would be to put
myself under your tirection to lay this same tevil, and by the time
you had trained me of all my Welch ploot, he would leave my lifeless
carcase to be poiled for your improvement; but avaunt, thou cataplasm
of cataplasms!--I defy thy incantations, plisters, and pleedings."

"I believe the young dog will live the longer, (cried the doctor,
addressing De Willows,) but who among us will deny or defy the sweet
influence of these lilies and roses that are now blooming around us."

"I do not pretend to any such philosophic apathy," replied De Willows.

"If you did, your looks would betray you, (retorted Edwin.) To deny
the united influence of love and beauty is not the province of
a soldier."

"Do all soldiers admire beauty, and fall in love?" inquired the
artless Edeliza, looking earnestly at De Willows.

"I believe so, my sweet little girl, (he answered;) love and death
are alike inevitable."

"But not equally dangerous, (said the laughing Roseline;) for I never
heard of any one dying of the wounds given by the little blind god,
though thousands fall victims to the more certain arrows sent from
the furnace of war."

"By the crate Cot, (said Camelford,) I had rather tie by the wounds
of a pair of pright eyes than by those of a cannon, loaded by the
hands of an ugly tog, who like a putcher delights in ploot."

"More fool you, (replied De Clavering;) the death in the one case
would be glorious and instantaneous,--in the other, foolish and
lingering,----"

"Unless I applied to a toctor to put me out of my misery, and then
I should get rid of it in a trice."

"A truce with your compliments, good folks, (said Roseline;) suppose
we endeavour to reconcile ourselves to the world, and all its strange
vagaries, by a dance in the great hall. This proposal met with
general approbation; to the great hall they descended, and, surrounded
by the rusty armour of their hardy forefathers, they enjoyed in the
mazy windings of the lively dance, a pleasure as innocent as it was
amusing, Lady de Morney herself being a gratified spectator of
the scene.

This hall was decorated, if we may use the term, with a vast number
of suits of armour, belonging to the family of Norfolk. One, more
light and higher finished than the rest, appeared to have belonged
to a youth of Edwin's size. He was prevailed on to fit it; and, armed
cap-a-pie, strutted about in bold defiance, and threw down his
gauntlet, daring any one to single combat who should deny the palm
of beauty being due to the lady he should name.

"Suppose I threw down my glove," said de Willows."

"You would soon take it up again, (replied Edwin, somewhat
scornfully,) as I fancy our taste in beauty to be the same."

De Willows coloured,--Madeline appeared uneasy,--and Edeliza declared
armour was the most frightful dress she ever saw, while the younger
part of the family jumped round their brother, and with eagerness
made many inquiries concerning the use of every part of his dress,
and requested their mother to let them wear some of the nodding
plumes which hung in lofty state around them.

In the course of the evening, Edwin gave Madeline a hint to retire
early to her chamber, having obtained possession of the keys, and
gained such directions as could not fail to satisfy their curiosity
and guide them in their researches. Madeline silently acquiesced,
and imparted, with trembling impatience, the tidings to her friend.
She was thoughtful and absent the rest of the evening, and availed
herself of the earliest opportunity of withdrawing to her chamber.
Roseline very soon followed her, and, as soon as the family had
retired to rest, Edwin stole gently to their apartment. They had
anxiously expected his arrival, and therefore gave him immediate
admittance.

Roseline rejoiced at seeing her brother, and eagerly inquired if he
was sure that he had the keys that would enable them to proceed. He
then produced a most enormous bunch, with a dark lantern, which was
to guide them through the intricate labyrinths of the castle, and
advised Madeline and his sister to guard against the damps of the
passages they had to go through, and to arm themselves with their
whole stock of resolution, lest their terror should betray him.

Roseline assured him her fears were conquered by her strong desire
to explore the secrets of their habitation, and Madeline promised
not to let her apprehensions impede their progress. Edwin lighted
his candle, and with some difficulty unfastened the trap-door he had
discovered in their closet; but, on opening it, a kind of noxious
vapour ascended, that almost tempted them to give up their design.
A flight of broken brick steps, of amazing depth, carried them into
a narrow winding passage, in which it was impossible for more than one
person to move forward at once.

Madeline caught hold of Edwin's coat, and Roseline followed her
with a lighted candle in her hand. For some time they groped along,
frequently stumbling over the stones which had fallen from the
mouldering walls, and trembling lest this passage should lead them
into danger. Edwin frequently stopped to encourage them to go on,
assuring them they had nothing to apprehend. By degrees the path
widened, and, on suddenly turning, they entered a kind of square,
round which were several doors, but so low, they did not seem made
to admit men but dwarfs. Going up to one of them, Edwin pushed it
open with his foot, and he was convinced they were the dungeons in
which prisoners of war were confined. Some contained only bedsteads,
iron rings, and fetters; in one of them they saw a human skull; in
another was a coffin, which appeared to have stood there for ages,
and with its silent inhabitant was falling to decay.

They proceeded till they came to a door which was so thickly studded
over with nails, bolts, bars, and locks, this it impeded their
farther progress. Edwin would fain have attempted to open it, but
was prevented by his shivering and terrified companions.

"Brother, (cried Roseline,) we have seen quite enough to satisfy us
for one night."

"Another time, Edwin, (added Madeline,) I shall feel less
repugnance to proceed. But how do you know that door does not lead
to some apartment where the restless spirit of another discontented
ghost may be confined, by some potent spell, till released by the
intrusion of beings who now wander amid the gloomy scenes of life
as he once did?"

"No such thing, (replied the intrepid and resolute Edwin;) that door
is an entrance to a subterraneous passage, which leads from this
castle to Mettingham, merely to give entrance to troops in any case
of emergency, or to cover the retreat of others that may want
to escape."

"But, as it has not been used, either for the one purpose or the
other, since my father resided here, (said Roseline,) it may now be
a shelter for thieves and traitors; therefore, for heaven's sake,
let us now return to our apartment."

Edwin, whose disposition was as amiable as his manners and person
were captivating, no longer contended with their wishes, but led
the way for them as he had done before, and, as he was a fine tall
youth, was obliged to stoop as he went along.

Just as they came near the foot of the steps which led to their
apartment, they saw, or thought they saw, a faint light gleam across
a passage which led to another part of these gloomy habitations, and
they imagined they perceived the figure of some one disappear at
their approach. This alarmed the whole group, and they hurried up
the stairs as hastily as their fears would let them. Having cautiously
fastened the trap-door, they sat down to recover themselves, and
recollected with a degree of horror and disgust the gloomy scenes
they had visited; but the light, and the figure they had all caught
a transient view of, dwelt most forcibly on their minds. Madeline
declared she should never have sufficient resolution to re-visit
these abodes of terror, contrived by the stern hands of despotism
and ambition.

"When we think, as we surely may, (said she,) with some degree of
certainty, how many poor souls have languished out a life of misery
in these gloomy cells, can we wonder if they are haunted by all they
have entombed? Shut out not only from the world, but from every
comfort, nature too recoils and shudders at the cruelties that may
have been practised on the poor victims thus buried in the bowels
of the earth."

"All this may be very true, my sweet Madeline, (interrupted Edwin,)
but I am determined to re-visit them. Perhaps some poor sufferers
may still remain in the castle; if so, it would be delightful to
soften the rigours of their fate."

"True, my dear brother, (cried Roseline, her eyes illumined with the
soft beams of genuine benevolence and philanthropy,) I will certainly
attend you."

"To quiet the fears of our lovely friend, (said Edwin,) I will
request old Bertrand, who has lived in this castle from the time we
came into it, to accompany and direct us in our search after misery.
I am told too, (he added,) there is a passage which leads from this
castle into the chapel of your nunnery. If I can find it out, I shall
certainly pay you a visit, and steal you from your cell; for, my dear
Madeline, whatever may be the truth and the virtues of our holy
religion, it is doubtless one of its abuses to shut from the world
those lovely works of the creation best calculated to enliven and
adorn it. Can it be deemed a greater crime to doom a worthless, or,
suppose I say, and innocent, man, to languish in a dungeon, that it
is to compel an unfortunate female to waste her days in the austere
walls of a nunnery,--kneel to the unfeeling image of a saint,--watch
the midnight lamp,--seclude herself from all social enjoyments,--and
linger through life in solitary sadness without a friend, or a lover,
to cheer her on her way?"

"Hush, for heaven's sake! (said the frightened Madeline;) if Father
Anselm heard you talk thus lightly and profanely of our holy religion,
I should be for ever debarred seeing you and Roseline again, for life
shut out from the world, and compelled to take the veil."

"Never, by heaven! (cried Edwin, thrown entirely off his guard by
the tender confusion and agitation of Madeline:) you shall take no
vows but such as love and nature dictate. I would perish a thousand
times,--lose a thousand lives to preserve you from a fate that would
not only make you wretched, but me for ever miserable.--Roseline has
long known that you are dear to my heart. Say,--ease me of the
torturing suspense I this moment feel,--do you not find an advocate
in your bosom that will plead my cause?"

Madeline trembled violently; her eyes were bent to the ground: She
would have fallen, had not Roseline flown to support her. She
attempted to speak, but the words died away inarticulately.

"I see how it is, (cried Edwin impassionately;) the happy De Willows
has gained by his attentions what I have lost by disgusting you with
mine: you hate, you despise me. I will solicit my father to let me
join the army: I will for ever remove this detested object from your
sight, and pray that the portion of happiness I have lost may be
redoubled to you."

Madeline, alarmed by the energy of this speech, was instantly roused
from the languor into which she had sunk.

"I hate no one, (said she softly;) but Edwin, you forget it would
be a crime in me to love. If, indeed, that had not been the case,--if
I were at liberty----"

"You would bless the happy De Willows with your hand."

"Never!--De Willows I regard as a friend: as any thing more I never
did,--never could think of him. I am you know banished from all
intercourse with the world;--my sentence has been long pronounced;
from that sentence there can be no appeal. Would to heaven I had
submitted to it, and never quitted the retreat to which parental
authority consigned me! At this painful moment my own feelings
inflict my punishment."

"Then you do not hate me? (cried Edwin, taking her hand.)--Only say
I am not quite indifferent to you, and I will endeavour to rest
satisfied, and ask no more; trusting that time may do much in my
favour; but, if you attempt to deprive me of all hope,--if you deny
me this innocent gratification, I will go to the wars."

"Ah! why will you press me to discover what it would be better to
conceal?--why will you tempt me to swerve from my duty to my God and
my parents, and make me a perjured, and unworthy sacrifice?--You
have, I fear, taught my heart a lesson it ought never to have learned:
but it must be the hard task of my future life to atone for the crime
I have committed in having suffered a mortal to rival that God, who
alone should have occupied all my thoughts and wishes."

Edwin threw himself at the feet of Madeline. His raptures were now
as unbounded as the conflict had been severe; and not till she sunk
fainting into the arms of her friend, could he be persuaded to quit
their apartment.

Happy was it for the party that Roseline had not only a greater
share of prudence and understanding that most of her sex, but
likewise more fortitude than is usually their portion. She soon
recovered, her friend soothed her into some degree of composure, and
endeavoured to inspire her with hopes that some plan might be adopted
which would remove those difficulties that threatened to divide two
hearts love had united, and which appeared formed by nature to make
each other happy. Roseline well knew her father would not only be
displeased, but shocked, if he discovered this unfortunate attachment,
and she blamed herself for having been the innocent cause of
involving two people so dear to her in such a hopeless scene of
complicated distress.

Notwithstanding the agonizing conflicts which had attended the
eclaircissement, the lovers felt a heavy burthen removed from their
hearts. Convinced of being mutually beloved, all other sorrows, all
other trials appeared light and trivial: they sunk into a more sweet
and peaceful slumber than they had long enjoyed,--dreamed of each
other, and arose the next morning with renovated spirits and
revived hopes.

Madeline wished the hour was arrived they were to renew their midnight
ramble, and thought, if she should meet a thousand ghosts, she should
not fear them, while Edwin, who loved her so tenderly and sincerely,
was near to guard her. She was eager too, but scarcely durst
acknowledge to herself she _wished_ the passage might be found which
led to the chapel in her nunnery.




CHAP. IV.


If there be any so fastidious and unfeeling as to condemn and
deprecate the romantic hopes and flattering visions cherished in
he buoyant bosom of nineteen, I am sorry for them, and here avow,
I wish never entirely to forget the fascinating pleasure of such
air-built hopes. Should they be sometimes attended with danger to the
weak and frail, they are likewise accompanied with their advantages
to the good and virtuous, and often enable us to encounter trials
with a resolution and fortitude, which, at a more advanced period
of our lives, when time has weakened our bodily frame, and experience
deprived us of those gay illusions, we find it difficult and painful
to acquire.--The philosophy of nineteen, though not abstruse, is
flattering and conclusive; so much the more valuable; for, after all
the researches of philosophy, what are we taught to know, but that
man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards?--that we are merely
the pilgrims and passengers of a day,--that our resting place must
be found in a better, an unknown world,--that we must encounter
innumerable trials on our journey, and at last die and be forgotten,
even by those for whom we have toiled, and to whom we are most tenderly
attached?--Surely then we may be allowed to snatch, or steal, a few
of those innocent enjoyments just thrown in our way, to encourage our
fortitude, and clear our path from some of the briars and thorns with
which it is so profusely planted.

Happy is it for those in the common walks of life, that all their
stock of philosophy is comprised in a few words, acquired without
study, and retained without taxing their time or burthening their
memory,--"it was my fate,--I could not run from it,--it was to be."
These trite sentences reconcile them to many distressing events, and
sometimes are their excuse for the frailties of their conduct.

When the parties met at breakfast the next morning, any careful
observer might have discovered, by the confusion visible on the
countenance of Madeline,--the constraint in her manner of addressing
Edwin,--his more than usual vivacity, and the pale cheeks and swelled
eyes of Roseline, that something had occurred to produce the change;
but, suspicion not being a frequent gust at the castle, no such
discovery was made: every one employed themselves as usual, and in a
few hours universal cheerfulness seemed to prevail.

The only observations made by Lady de Morney were, that her dear
Edwin looked remarkably well, was in charming spirits, and had dressed
himself better and more becomingly than usual. Madeline coloured, and
thought the same. Roseline smiled, and Edwin whispered something in the
ear of Madeline that prevented the roses fading on her cheek.

The dress of Madeline, though to her particularly becoming, would
to thousands have been totally the reverse. It was the dress of the
order of Benedictines, to which she belonged, consisting of a black
robe, with a scapulary of the same. Under the robe, nuns, when
professed, wore a tunic of white undyed wool, and, when they went
to the choir, they had a cowl like that worn by the monks; but the
boarders, who were in what we may call a state of probation, were
allowed to wear a tunic of muslin or cambrick, and covered their heads
with a white veil. This dress, little suited to please the whimsical
taste of the present time, was, strange as it may appear, simple and
becoming, and proved the truth of the poet's observation, that

                        ------Loveliness
    Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
    But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.

Madeline, in the habit of her order, was so captivating a figure,
that no one ever thought any alteration or change in it could have
added a charm to those bestowed on her by the partial hand of
nature. She was tall, and elegantly formed; the expression of her
countenance, blended with softness and dignity, conveying an idea
of superior virtue being united to superior loveliness.

Just before dinner, the Doctor observed that Madeline looked pale:
having felt her pulse, he inquired what had given them cause to beat
so much out of time.

"I must examine into this matter, (said he archly.) They are gallopping
along at a strange rate; either the head or the heart must occasion
this revolution in the system of my patient's usual habit. If it be
the disease of the heart, I must resign my place to a more able
practitioner.--Do not blush, my fair nun, but tell me whom you would
have called in."

"I am perfectly satisfied with your advice, my good doctor, and at
this time believe I want a cook more than a physician, therefore
excuse me if I say you you entirely misunderstand my case."

"Don't be too positive (said De Clavering) of my ignorance. You may
safely trust me with all your complaints,--even with those of the
heart; for I feel myself extremely interested that you should not
return to the nunnery with any additional one added to those you so
unfortunately brought away."

"Ah! (said Madeline,) mentally, advice is now too late. I shall carry
back with me a more corroding, a more painful complaint than any I
ever knew before; yet, strange as it is, I would not be cured for
the world, as my being so would wound Edwin de Morney.

Only Camelford was present when this little badinage passed between
the Doctor and his patient. He advised the former to lay aside his
wig, and take up the cowl, as the most certain method of discovering
the truth; "for, though the laties, (he added,) will not tell all
they think to you or I, they will not attempt to teceive their Cot."

"If I thought putting on a cowl would transform me to a god, (said
De Clavering,) I would soon hazard the transformation, and then I
would place a shield before the heart of every fair daughter of
Britain, that should have the property of a talisman, to warn them
againsst the designs and insidious attention of young men, six feet
high, with black sparkling eyes, auburn hair, teeth of ivory, handsome
legs, and white hands."

Madeline knew the portrait, and, rising to conceal her blushes, ran
hastily out of the room.

Hugh Camelford burst into a violent fit of laughter, and told the
Doctor, "so far from being thought a Cot, the young laty certainly
took him for the tifel, having discovered his spells and clofen foot,
or perhaps for Tafy ap Jones, who, after tying for lof, was thrown
into the Red Sea, and had haunted all lof-sick maidens ever since,
poor discontented tifel!"

"And that will be your fate, Hugh, (retorted the Doctor,) unless you
send home the Welch lass whom you betrayed, and then left to starve
with your son, a fat chubby boy, very like his father."

"As I hope to escape the toctor and tamnation, (said the indignant
Hugh,) I never petrayed a lass in my whole life; therefore, you
cataplasm, you plister, you caustic of fire, pring no such scandals
on the coot name of Camelford, lest I take a little of your carnivorous
plood, and make you drink it!"

The Doctor stole off laughing, and Camelford soon recovered his
good humour.

A dance was proposed for the evening, and readily agreed to by the
young people, who determined to make the time pass as cheerfully as
possible during the absence of Sir Philip and the visit of Madeline.

In those days dancing was the favourite amusement of the youth of
both sexes: rich and poor, young and old, one with another, mixed
in the animating dance:--complaints of weariness and fatigue were
seldom heard. This exercise was not only favourable to health, but
the roses it produced on the glowing cheek of youth rendered all
application to the borrowed ones of art totally unnecessary. Rouge
was then unknown, and no _Warren_ existed to abolish old women, by
giving the furrowed features of age an unfading bloom. The plain
jacket, with a small quantity of ribbon bound round a cambric cap,
were then thought becoming, and few ornaments were worn but on very
important and particular occasions; yet beauty was equally admired:
the same homage was paid to it, and it held in bondage as many
captives, without the adventitious aid of deception and extravagance.

Another preservative of youth and health was their keeping better,
that is, earlier hours. Night was night, and dedicated to its original
purpose. Day was properly divided, and found of sufficient length for
all the useful employments of life. Few young ladies but had seen
the sun rise in all its glory, and found their hearts expanded by
the grand and awful sight; and, while they welcomed its reviving rays
from the portals of the east, it tended to raise their minds to that
God who made the sun, and who alone could number the stars by which
it was surrounded.

A fine moon-light evening seldom passed unnoticed by these aspiring
worthies, eager after knowledge; for, having happily fewer amusements,
they had more time to attend to the instructive beauties of nature,
the study of which affords an inexhaustible source of pleasure and
surprise. Fearless of their complexions, they not only rambled but
worked in their gardens. Each had a little spot of ground marked out,
and it soon produced the desired effect; every one was emulous to
outshine the other in its cultivation, and Sir Philip or Lady de Morney
were often called upon as arbitrators to decide the superior beauty
of a rose, the size of a carnation, or the snowy tints of a lily.

De Clavering had told them, that, under their feet, they often
trampled on plants, in the careful study of which might be found a
cure for every disease incident to the climate they inhabited, and
that in other climates the earth produced her treasures for the
same benevolent purpose; but the careless inattention of mankind
to this useful knowledge had rendered the profession of physic
absolutely necessary, and given men of learning and genius an
opportunity of displaying their talents in preserving the lives of
their fellow creatures.

In consequence of these hints, all kinds of herbs were planted, and
their virtues put to the test by being applied to relieve the diseases
of their poor neighbours; and never did a high-bred town belle, at
making a conquest, or a hero, after obtaining a signal victory, exult
more, or feel greater delight than the having effected a cure produced
in the minds of these young practitioners. De Clavering was gratified
in giving them all the intelligence they requested, very often
inquired when they went their rounds to visit their patients, and
offered them his physical wig to give them consequence.

In those days people lived much longer in the same number of years;
to rise between five and six o'clock, and breakfast at seven, was
their usual custom, the time of taking their meals differing as much
as their antique habits. Dinner was constantly on the table between
eleven and twelve, and supper regularly served at seven; tea was then
bu little used, Whether the introduction of that bewitching beverage
had been followed by the long catalogue of evils laid to its charge,
I am not able to determine; but, as I have known many weak
constitutions who have never felt any ill effects from taking it,
I am inclined to think it has not such dangerous properties as are
alledged against it by valetudinarians and their medical advisers.

But what would the antediluvian souls, who compose my dramatis personae
say to the innovations made upon time in these day of delicate and
fashionable refinement? They would suppose the world turned topsy-turvy,
and be puzzled to know why the afternoon should be discarded, and what
part of the twenty-four hours to call night.

The periodical times of taking refreshment are quite different to
what they formerly were, and contradictory to the practice of our
ancestors, who hoarded their time, and considered it as a treasure
of some value. We may now literally be said to turn day into night,
and night into day, while the want of time is the source of general
complaint. Our people of fashion, and many of no fashion at all,
breakfast at three in the afternoon, dine at seven, sip their tea
at eleven o'clock at night, and sup at four in the morning; whereas
Queen Elizabeth breakfasted at five or six in the morning, and dined
at eleven in the forenoon.--She and all her court went to bed with
the sun in summer, and at eight or nine o'clock in winter.

The parliament, in the reign of Charles the First, went to prayers
at five or six in the morning, and the king dined at twelve; nay,
in the licentious reign of that merry monarch, his son, dinner at two
was thought a very late hour; for all public diversions were at an
end by six in the evening, and the ladies, after seeing a play, went
in their carriages to Hyde-Park.

Whether it would not be greatly to the advantage of people in general
to revive some old customs, and return to the prudent habits of our
progenitors, will not admit of much dispute. Private families, in
these expensive times, would undoubtedly be benefited. Morning would
again become a theme for the poet, and poor day-light be brought into
fashion. Our parliament too would find more time to transact the
important business of the nation, on which they so eloquently
harangue. Possibly a good dinner would add weight to their arguments,
and the not being hungry would prevent their eagerness to adjourn.

But one of its greatest evils, after that above mentioned, is felt
by servants, particularly the unhappy cook. She seldom sees the face
of day,--never enjoys the enlivening rays of the sun, and can scarcely
find time even to change her clothes till the night is too far advanced
to render the change necessary. It was formerly the custom for people
to walk after tea, and by doing so acquire a redoubled relish for
the variegated beauties of nature; but now the table makes its
appearance at so unseasonable an hour, and fashionable etiquette,
with the love of good cheer, detains them so long, that in fact it
appears the chief business of life to study every art and contrivance
how to destroy and squander, not how to improve our time; and, instead
of people's eating that they may live, they now live only to eat and
drink, that the senses, I presume, may be disabled from torturing them
with reproaches.--But to return to our tale.

In the evening, as Edeliza was going down the dance, her eyes, with
those of Madeline, were attracted by the same object,--a plume of
white feathers, placed on a suit of armour, nodded, and the armour
moved. This had such an effect, Madeline screamed, and Edeliza,
throwing herself into the arms of De Willows, begged he would protect
her from the ghost. The dancing stopped, the whole party was alarmed,
and Lady de Morney very much surprised; but, on being informed what
had occasioned the bustle, Hugh Camelford flew to discover its cause,
and, jumping upon a long table, which was placed by the side of the
room for the accommodation of large parties on any particular
occasion, he without much ceremony caught hold of the haunted armour,
when, to the astonishment of the whole company there instantly
appeared,--gentle reader, be not alarmed!--not the ghost of a
murdered hero, nor forsaken maid,--but the youngest daughter of Sir
Philip de Morney, who skipping from her concealment upon the table,
and from thence to the floor, shook her head, decorated with a
profusion of flaxen hair, which curled in natural ringlets, and
laughed heartily at the fright she had occasioned.

"Of all the chosts I ever saw, (said the delighted Hugh, catching
her up in his arms,) this is by much the prettiest and most
entertaining. I should like to be haunted by such an one all the
tays of my life."

Lady de Morney called the little culprit, and, having severely
reproved her, ordered her to bed, to which she had been sent before
the party had began dancing, for some fault she had committed, but
had persuaded one of the servants to place her as before described,
that she might be a spectator, though she was not permitted to be a
partaker in the amusement. Lady de Morney reprimanded the servant;
and, had it not been for the general intercession of the company,
poor Birtha would have been a prisoner in her own apartment
some days.

This incident, simple in itself, happened very unfortunately for
the two ladies, who had agreed to accompany Edwin in his subterranean
tour. They lingered till the last moment, and then withdrew with
visible reluctance; but determined, as soon as they reached their
own room, not to say a word to Edwin of their fears, as they knew
it would expose them to ridicule, if not to censure, and there was
not in the catalogue of human ills or evils any circumstance
Madeline would so much have dreaded as being thought meanly of by
Edwin de Morney.

Within little more than an hour after the family had withdrawn, all
the servants retired to rest, they were joined by the sanguine and
spirited Edwin, accompanied by the ancient veteran, who, though
loaded with the heavy burthen of fourscore years, was still active
and hearty, his senses unimpaired, and his sturdy limbs still able
to carry with firmness their accustomed load. His grey locks hung
with silvered dignity upon his aged shoulders, and his eye retained
some of their former expression. He made a profound obeisance to
the ladies on his entrance, and was received with that condescending
affability which his years and long-tried faithfulness demanded.

Edwin's manner of introducing him, flattered the old man's remaining
stock of vanity, and revived, in full force, the remembrance of his
former exploits, which, though they had not procured him preferment,
secured him attention and respect.

"This is my friend Bertrand, (said Edwin, addressing Madeline
particularly on his entrance;) though you had some fears with only
such a stripling as myself for a leader, you can have none with so
experienced and brave a guide."

The old man listened with delighted attention to this eulogium from
the lips of his dear young master, whom he had so often dandled on
his knee, whom he had been so fortunate as to snatch from a watery
grave, and for whom he retained a stronger affection than for any
other being on earth. Sir Philip had long maintained him in ease and
comfort, and excused him from every employment, but such as tended
to the preservation of his health. Both ladies held out their hands,
which he respectfully kissed, and preyed that heaven might bless and
reward them for their kindness to their old but grateful servant.

"Now the ceremony of introducing you into the bed-chamber of these
fair ladies is over, 'tis time for us to think of proceeding, my
old friend, (said Edwin.) If you will assist me in unfastening the
trap-door, we will procure lights, and, putting ourselves under your
direction, follow wherever you are disposed to lead us.




CHAP. V.


It was the intention of Bertrand to open the door of the subterranean
passage, which communicated with Mettingham-castle; but, before they
proceeded par, something rushed past them several times: it was rapid,
and their candle threw so feeble a light on the walls which surrounded
them, that they could not discover what it was.

They hurried on till they came to the square leading to the dungeons,
when their attention was arrested, and their fears increased by the
barking of a dog. They hesitated, looked with astonishment at each
other, and stopped, as if irresolute whether to return or proceed.
In the mean while, the little animal made its appearance, jumped and
capered about, as it it rejoiced at seeing them in its dreary
habitation, attached itself particularly to Roseline, and seemed to
recognize an old and beloved friend.

Roseline took it up in her arms, kissed and caressed it; but how
to account for meeting with so beautiful, fond, and gentle a creature
was not only matter of surprise but wonder.

"Are you sure, sister, (said Edwin, slily glancing a look at the
pale face and trembling lips of the terrified Madeline,)--are you
sure it is a real dog?--May it not be one of the ghosts, who, in
such various shapes, are said to haunt these gloomy regions, and
disturb the peaceful slumbers of young maidens, born perhaps two
hundred years after they had left the world?"

This gentle reproof restored the roses to the fair cheek from which
fear had driven them, while Roseline declared it was really and truly
the prettiest dog she had ever seen. Bertrand had looked thoughtful,
agitated, and confused, from the moment it appeared.

"This dog must have a master, (said Edwin,) and that master must be
somewhere near these cells."

"Perhaps (said Bertrand) some daring villain may have found entrance
here, either with the hopes of plunder, or to accomplish designs
against the castle; let us therefore, for the present, give up
attempting to explore the passage; it might be dangerous to unfasten
a door which is now our security."

"Had we not better call for help?" said the again-terrified Madeline.

"Not for the world! (interrupted Edwin;)--how should we be able to
account to my mother for being in this place, without burthening her
mind with ten thousand suspicions? while, telling her our reasons
would most assuredly expose our venerable companion to the certain
displeasure of my father.--Do you (said he, addressing Bertrand)
know if there is any one a prisoner at this time?"

The old man hesitated.--"I know but little--I apprehend it may be
so,--but I--I hope you will excuse my talking on a subject
that--that--"

"It must assuredly be so, (said Roseline softly to her brother,) and
from that cause proceeded the noises which so repeatedly alarmed us."

Again every one stood for a moment irresolute. Edwin, however, fearful
of bringing his father's anger on Bertrand, and scorning to tempt
the old man to betray and trust reposed in him, or any secret belonging
to another, instantly formed his resolution to act with the utmost
caution. He proposed to his sister and Madeline to return to their
apartment as soon as Bertrand had pointed out the passage which led
to the nunnery.--On being shewn the door which might one day enable
him to meet his Madeline, and open to give him a gleam of happiness,
Roseline snatched up the little dog, pressed him to her bosom, and
vowed to release him from captivity.

As soon as they had reached their own apartment, Bertrand, after
promising eternal secrecy, took a respectful leave. Edwin accompanied
him to his room, then returned to his sister's and proposed instantly
renewing their search.

"This is doing nothing, (said he;) all is still left to conjecture
and uncertainty."

"If you mean to go again, (said Madeline,) why did you suffer Bertrand
to leave us?"

"From respect to my father and regard to the old man, (he replied;)
for should we, my dear Madeline, make any discovery of consequence,
with us the secret will rest secure, and, should we be found out, on
ourselves alone will fall the displeasure of Sir Philip; but, by
this procedure, we empower no one either to betray his secrets or
our own. We will, however, carry back with us this little stranger,
(continued he, pointing to the dog, who was sleeping on a cushion
which Roseline had placed for him before the fire,) and, when we
set him down, we will follow wherever he may choose to lead us: If
he be attached to any miserable being confined in one of the cells
or dungeons, we may depend upon his returning to his usual habitation."

Once more the trap-door was lifted up; once more the party descended
into regions like those of the grave, while the mouldering walls,
glittering with the dews of night, and rendered humid with the
unwholsome damps of the situation, hung loose and disjointed over
their heads, as if to threaten instant destruction.

Turning into a passage which led to a contrary direction to that
they had before entered, and which was somewhat wider and less dismal
than the other, Roseline sat down the dog, who ran nimbly away, as
if well acquainted with the path. They followed with the utmost
caution, observing a profound silence. The dog went before them the
whole length of the passage, then turned suddenly down a few steps,
at the bottom of which a door stood half-open: he rushed in, and
appeared to them to stop at some distance. Instantly they heard him
growl and bark, and this determined them to proceed.

They passed through two small apartments decently furnished, and,
just as they reached an inner door, at which the dog had demanded
admittance, they saw it slowly open, and a faint voice appeared to
chide the guiltless wanderer for his long, long absence, and then
to caress him with fondness.

Edwin, knowing, if he hesitated to proceed, the fears of his
companions would increase by the delay, gently tapped at the door.
For a minute all was silent; he then gave some louder raps. The same
person very soon opened the door, of whom they had caught a transient
glimpse when he had granted admittance to the dog. He was evidently
alarmed, and in tremulous and terrified accents inquired who was
there,--what was the matter,--and what errand brought them? at the
same time brandishing a sword, which he had hastily snatched from a
chair which stood near him.

"Whoever you are (continued he) that have found a way to this den
of misery, you may safely enter, unless you come to add farther
oppressions, and inflict additional woes on the head of an injured
and guiltless sufferer. If you come with such diabolical intentions,
be assured of this,--I will no longer be a passive or silent spectator
of such unheard of barbarity, but give up a life in his defence which
cruelty has rendered a worthless sacrifice. Forego then your designs,
and know he will not long be either a burthen or reproach to his
unnatural parent and sordid oppressors."

"We come with no design to injure or oppress, (said Edwin.) We inhabit
this castle, and were led by the curiosity incidental to youth into
these horrid regions.--Chance conducted us into these apartments,
without knowing they were inhabited.--We wish not to alarm or interrupt
any one, but of this be assured, if you will inform us how we can
serve you, or render your situation more comfortable, we will gladly
contribute all in our power to do so. Your countenance does not appear
stamped with guilt, and your determination to protect the injured
speaks a noble mind."

The sword was instantly laid down,--the door flew open,--and they
were requested to enter by one, who told them his life and courage
were only valuable so long as they would enable him to watch and
protect the best and most beloved of masters.

Reader, guess, if it be possible, the surprise and astonishment of
our trembling and compassionate adventurers, when they beheld and
elegant young man, whose countenance was as prepossessing as his
situation was interesting, wrapped in a striped-satin morning-gown,
which reached to his feet, with his hair hanging in graceful ringlets,
and nearly concealing a face pale as death, lying on a kind of couch,
and to all appearance in the last stage of a consumption.

On the entrance of Edwin, he took but little notice, but, on seeing
Roseline and her friend advance, he looked up, and attempted to rise,
but was not equal to the effort, and instantly sunk down in a state
of apparent insensibility. Roseline, more agitated and terrified by
the whole of this unaccountable and affecting scene than she would
have been at the sight of the ghost she had almost expected to meet,
flew to support him. She was assisted by Edwin and Madeline, and
their united endeavours soon restored the poor sufferer to life and
an imperfect sense of his situation.

Having now no longer any fears, he fixed his large blue eyes on the
strangers,--wondered from whence they came,--how all this could
happen,--and to what blessed chance it was owing the he saw himself
attended and consoled by two celestial beings, for as such he actually
considered them; while the pure drops of genuine and the gentlest
pity fell softly on his emaciated hand, he raised the precious gems
of compassion to his lips, sighed deeply, then, looking earnestly
in the face of Roseline, with a smile of doubt and anguish once more
sunk down in a state of insensibility, unable to bear the weight of
his own agitated and contending feelings.

The attendant, who had strictly observed the whole of this
extraordinary scene, now approached to assist in recovering his
master. Edwin hastened to his sister's apartment to procure proper
restoratives; they were applied with their usual success, and the
change they produced gave new life and spirits to all around,
particularly Roseline, who concluded they arrived merely to witness
his dying moments, and hear him breathe his last sigh.

She was still supporting his languid head on her knee; his hand
rested on her arm, his eyes were fixed upon her face, his lips moved,
and the words "kind, consoling angel: were all they could understand.

"What can this mean? (said Edwin;) who is your master?--who brought
him here? and of what crime has he been guilty that he is sentenced
to such a place as this?"--

"I am bound (replied the servant) by the most solemn oath to silence
and secresy. By complying with these conditions I obtained leave to
attend him. Were I at liberty to speak, I could a tale unfold would
tempt you to curse the world, and even detest those claims which bind
man to man. You would be ready to forego the ties of nature, and shun
society.--Time will, it must develop the whole of this mystery."

"But my father!" said Edwin.

"Your father, sir, like my dear unhappy master, is blameless and
innocent: he has been deceived like many others."

"But why (cried Roseline) are you thus shut out from the world, and
banished society?--why, if innocent, is not this poor sufferer placed
in a situation more likely to restore him to health?--why thus cruelly
deprived not only of liberty, light, and air, but of every other
necessary comfort?"

"A higher power has willed it should be so," said the stranger, whose
unreserved manner, superior language, honest and open countenance,
found an instant passport to their hearts, confirmed their belief,
and banished every suspicious doubt of his sincerity.

"Are you involved in the crimes of which this gentleman is suspected?"
inquired Madeline.

"No, madam; my only crime is my attachment to him. I am here by my
own voluntary choice, and were they to convey him a thousand fathoms
deeper in the earth, I would not, unless I were compelled, ever leave
him till his noble and guiltless soul was summoned to appear before
a more just and merciful tribunal than he has found on earth."

"A thousand blessings on you! (cried Roseline, a tear trembling in
each expressive eye,) for shewing this care and god-like compassion
to one so helpless and oppressed.--Brother, surely we may, without
deserving reproach, unite our endeavours with those of this friendly
stranger, to soften the pangs of misery and death, be they inflicted
by whom they may."

"You ought to do so, (cried the lovely Madeline, whose gentle spirit
was awakened into action by the scene before her.)--As fellow-creatures,
and the children of the same Almighty Parent, it is our duty to assist
each other; but we should do more, not remain coldly indifferent to
sufferings which, if we cannot entirely remove, we may in some measure
alleviate."

"And we will do so! (cried the generous and animated Edwin.)--You too,
my honest fellow, (turning to the servant,) shall share in our kind
offices. You deserve the thanks of every good Christian, and to be
immortalized for your faithful attachment to one so helpless and unable
to reward you.--But how is this?" observing the invalid had sunk into
a gentle and quiet sleep; like the peaceful slumber of an infant.

"This has been the case for some weeks. His spirits depressed by the
corroding anguish which preys upon his mind, his body has become a
victim to the conflict, and the soul of my master will soon, by
quitting this earthly tenement, escape the farther persecution of his
enemies. Much, much as I love him, I should rejoice at his release."

The words trembled on his tongue, and the tear of manly compassion
rolled down his cheek.

"Has he no one to attend him? (said Roseline, looking at him with
eyes that beamed with all the heavenly animation which at that moment
throbbed around her heart;) has he no advice?"

"Only such as I can give him, madam. Poor and ignorant as I am, he
has never been allowed any other physician, or better tutor than
myself; but I trust, if the Almighty would again restore him to
health, he would now meet with those who would assist in performing
a task for which I was never calculated."

"Has he no bed to sleep on?" cried Roseline, gently removing his
languid head upon a cushion that laid on a couch, without
awakening him.

"There is one in the inner apartment, but this being the most
comfortable and airy room, he will not leave it."

"I will fetch some pillows."

She did so; they were instantly placed under his head. Still he
slept as if her were never to awake again.

"In the morning, (said Roseline,) at the foot of the stairs, which
your will find by turning to the left, at the end of this passage,
I will leave some few trifles and comfortable cordials, which I hope
will be of service.

"And tomorrow night, at about this time, you may expect us again,
(said Edwin.) I hope your master will then have shaken off this
death-like slumber, and be able to converse with us."

"Perhaps he may, (replied Albert, the name of this faithful servant;)
but he never talks much. I had taught him to read, but they took
away our books, and since that time I am afraid he has lost the
remembrance of the little knowledge he had of reading. He has lately
learned to play a few simple tunes on the lute,--that sometimes
amuses him."

"We will bring you some books, (said Roseline,) and surely, Edwin,
you and I can assist Albert in the delightful task of restoring by
friendship what has been lost by cruelty."

Albert informed them they were regularly served with their meals,
but never saw the person who brought them, all intercourse with any
one being forbidden, to prevent the possibility of discovery or escape;
but, he said, they had better food and more indulgences than had been
allowed them in their former prison, which consisted only of one room.

The party now retired with the utmost caution, lest they should
disturb the apparently-peaceful slumbers of the prisoner, and deprive
him of his only refuge from misery.

Before they parted, Roseline and her brother, actuated by the same
generous feelings in behalf of this unfortunate young man, and his
equally unfortunate companion, satisfied, should there be found any
thing in their conduct to condemn, (which they could not bring
themselves to think,) in their present situation there was much to
pity, resolved to unite in their endeavours of relieving their
miseries, and softening the rigours of a confinement, of which they
knew not the cause; but they were told, the object who had most excited
their compassion was innocent, and therefore they determined to think
him so till his own conduct, or an explanation from any other quarter,
proved him otherwise. It is true, they had nothing on which to found
their belief but the word of a stranger, and him they found in the
humble capacity of a servant; but, though a stranger, he had, by his
simple, modest, and unaffected language, given ample proofs in their
opinion of his sincerity.

They now left the cells, and retired instantly to bed,--dreamed of
the prisoner, and sometimes imagined they could distinguish his groans;
in fact, they thought and talked of him, and him only.

Early in the morning, Roseline carried every little nicety she could
procure, and left them at the foot of the stairs,--then hurried back
to her room, not daring to stop and make inquiries, lest the person
who supplied the object of her pity with his daily food should discover
and betray her benevolent designs.

Madeline was now making a rapid progress in her recovery, and was
every hour in fear of receiving a summons from the abbess to return
to the nunnery. Edwin participated in all her fears, and lamented,
in the language of tender affection, the cruel necessity which
compelled her to leave the castle, protesting neither walls nor vows
should long divide them, and swearing to release her from a situation,
which, though sanctioned by religion, only bigotry, superstition, and
priestcraft, could justify; which he knew would not only destroy
all his prospects of happiness, but, as he could not disbelieve the
fascinating hopes he had not absolutely been forbidden to cherish,
the happiness also of a beloved object, dearer to him than life,
without whom fortune, honour, prosperity, and youth, would be robbed
of all their value.

The next day, accompanied by Bertrand, Edwin stole by another entrance
into the lower recesses of the castle, not mentioning a word of the
prisoner, and carefully avoiding that quarter in which he was confined.
They first explored the subterraneous passage, leading to the nunnery,
and found fewer impediments in their way than they expected. They
easily gained an entrance into the chapel, having fixed upon an hour
when they knew all the fathers and nuns would be engaged in their
cells. They found the opening under the organ, and in that part of the
chapel appropriated to the use of the nuns, the door being concealed
from observation by a very curious tomb, belonging to the ancient
family of De G--.

They entered next the passage leading to Mettingham-castle, and
determined to see the whole of it. Here they met with many
difficulties: in some places huge stones had fallen from the
walls,--in others the arch-way was so low they were almost obliged
to crawl,--while toads, snakes, and various kinds of reptiles impeded
their progress; when, at length, they reached the end of this
wonderful labyrinth, the production of labour and art, they found
themselves close to the ballium of Mettingham-castle, and under a
strong machiolated and embattled gate.

They now discovered another short passage, which was terminated by
a door that opened to the outer ballium, and through which the cavalry
could sally in any case of emergency. They ventured cautiously to look
around them. Edwin's mind, however, was chiefly occupied by one dear
object, and he secretly rejoiced at having found the means of escaping
with Madeline, should the obstinacy of her parents, or the ambition of
his own, leave him no other resource.

He likewise, in the course of the day, but unaccompanied by any one,
opened the door on the stair-case leading to the South tower. He felt
a kind of repugnance at taking this step, but determined, as matters
were now circumstanced, to go through the whole of this unpleasant
business at once, that nothing might be left to conjecture. He also
recollected that it would not only put an end to that restless
curiosity which had long dwelt upon his mind, but enable him to judge
whether it would be possible to remove the dying prisoner into a more
airy and convenient room, without the hazard of a discovery.

This wind of the castle he knew was totally unoccupied, as in his
boyish days he had frequently, and at all times gone that way to
the ramparts to lodge his playthings in a secret apartment in one
of the highest towers, and never in his peregrination had met with
a human being.

On attempting first to open the door, he was a good deal startled
at the noise it occasioned, and was almost buried beneath the heap
of cobwebs and dirt which fell and enveloped him in a cloud of
dust.--Some birds too, that had here found a sage asylum, flew in
terror around him. Not willing to disturb them more than was necessary,
he unfastened a narrow casement, to give those opportunity of
escaping who wished to obtain their liberty. He then stole softly
and cautiously across the room to an opposite door, which opened
without any difficulty, and he entered a second apartment, much larger
and more commodious than the first. It was hung with ancient
tapestry, on which time and moth had made many depredations; but,
in some parts of it, the full-length figures remained perfect, and
the colours retained some of their beautiful shades. He soon discovered
that it represented the most striking and interesting scenes in the
well-known history of Hero and Leander, from his first seeing her,
in the temple of Venus, at Seftos, in Thrace, till the last closing
scene of their unfortunate loves.

The figures of the lovers were fine, and in excellent preservation,
and the tapestry was of so superior a kind, that it gave as full
force and expression to the faces and drapery as the finest painting
could have conveyed. The temple, the palace, the turret, and the
Hellespont, upon whose waves the rising and setting sun were
alternately reflected, with the downy swan, in snowy dignity, which
was seen laving on its bosom were admirably depicted.

The nurse, or attendant of the faithful Hero stood at full length
on the edge of the water, which gently undulated near the walls of
the palace, pointing to the waves, and as if in the act of telling
her fond, impatient mistress her lover was coming, while she, with
modest sweetness, seemed fearful of stealing a look at the element
which contained a treasure dearer to her soul that the whole of her
ambitious father's dominions.

In another part, he saw the lifeless body of Leander, and the
despairing Hero in the act of throwing herself into the Hellespont,
which had unfortunately proved the grave of her lover.

Edwin stood a long time, silently admiring this pathetic tale: it
had an instantaneous effect upon his feelings; it served to remind
him of the difficulties he should have to encounter in his attachment
to Madeline, and he could have kissed the senseless portrait of the
old Egyptian woman for her kind and faithful attentions to the
persecuted lovers.

In the middle of the room stood a square table, on which were
carelessly spread a number of papers. Four massy silver candlesticks
were likewise placed upon it, each of which contained a wax-candle,
that had never been lighted, and an old writing, to which was annexed
a vast many seals, laid folded up under them.

This he concluded was the mystic bond which held in captivity the
restless spirit it was supposed to confine. Edwin opened and attempted
to read it. In some parts the writing was defaced, and the whole of
the language so unintelligible, he very soon replaced it in its former
situation, imagining that, if the ghost was not to regain its liberty
till the bond could be read, it would rest in peace for ever, and
suffer others to do the same.

In the chimney stood an antique grate, that had once been bright,
and still shewed some of its brilliant features through the rust by
which it was enveloped. A few chairs were standing here and there,
but they were falling to decay. He then opened another door, which
led him into a vaulted chamber, in which were placed the tattered
remains of a bed, that had been handsome, and could be repaired. A
book of devotion was lying upon it. The windows were high and narrow,
admitting but little light, notwithstanding which they were secured
by iron bars of immense thickness, so strongly, that, had they been
lower, it would have been impossible for the arm of the strongest
man to remove or shake them.

This led him to conclude it was originally designed for the security
of prisoners of rank, its distance from the ground precluding any
communication with the people on guard; and he shuddered as he
recollected how many, like the poor prisoner in the cells, might
have lingered away their wretched existence in this very apartment,
in the hopeless expectation of meeting with a release.

He next carefully searched in every part of the room, to discover
if there was not a more secret entrance, but found none.--He put the
key into his pocket, as he had before done that of the trap-door,
and in the morning, unobserved by Bertrand, had the precaution not
to lock the door of the subterraneous passage, leaving it well
secured by the bolts and bars which were on the inside.

He now hastened to replace all the rest of the keys in the repository
from whence he had taken them, and was satisfied those he retained in
his own possession would not be missed by his father or any one else.

After this he returned to join the family, and said not a word of
what he had seen, nor the plans which floated in his own mind, in
consequence of the morning peregrinations he had taken.




CHAP. VI.


In the course of the day, Roseline asked a thousand questions, with
apparent indifference, of De Clavering, respecting the nature of
consumptive cases, their symptoms, progress, &c. and how people ought
to manage themselves in regard to diet, who were confined in damp
regions of a dungeon, or immured in the narrow precincts of a prison;
to all which she received such plain, direct, and experienced answers,
as she cherished hopes would enable her, with the approbation of
heaven, to be the humble means of restoring to health, or a more
promising degree of convalescence, the interesting object whose
secret sufferings hap stimulated her to make these unusual inquiries;
and what gave new life and added energy to her benevolent hopes was
the arrival of a letter from Sir Philip to Lady de Morney, in which
he was reluctantly obliged to inform her that his stay in London was
unfortunately prolonged, and he was sorry to find his absence from
the castle was likely to be protracted a considerable length of time
from the slow progress of the law, and the difficulties thrown in
the way by his opponents. This account would have given her paid a
few days before; it was now a source of pleasure, which produced the
most sanguine expectations of preserving, under Providence, the life
of a fellow-creature, or, at least, of rendering its closing scene
less hopeless and more comfortable.

A sensibility, like that which was lodged in the bosom of the artless
and innocent Roseline, I would wish all my sex to possess. So far
from tempting her to run from misery, it led her in search of it,
and, when found, it awakened every gentle passion of the mind into
immediate and resolute action; while the fictitious feeling, the
affected sensibility of a modern miss is confined to kicking,
fainting, or squalling at sight of a wretched object, and the little
they may really have will evaporate in the trouble of acting their
part so as to impose on the minds of others an unjust sense of their
own delicate and extreme compassion.

How much might men as well as women add to the dignity of nature by
never attempting to destroy her! In the formation of man, God lent
his own image; how would it astonish, how would it excite the
indignation of the almost unenlightened savage, if he met with any
one so foolish as to suppose they could improve that image by the
ridiculous distortions and grimaces of affectation! and how would he
be diverted, could he see the devoted slaves of fashion so disguise
the human form, that the head is frequently increased to twice its
original size,--the waist sometimes dwindled to a span, at others
entirely lost; then again restored with such protuberances as even to
render the character suspected;--and at times our modern beaux and
belles are seen so completely in masquerade, that it is a matter of
some difficulty to distinguish on sex from the other,--a circumstance
that might be attended with ludidicrous, if not dangerous, consequences.

As the spirits of Lady de Morney were much depressed by the receipt
of Sir Philip's letter, every one exerted themselves to amuse her.
They sung, they danced, and the tale went merrily round. De Willows
and De Clavering appeared unusually animated, and Hugh Camelford fared
the worse for their exertions. They roused the fiery blood of the brave
Cambrian, and then cooled it again by a well-turned compliment. They
likewise so powerfully assailed Elwyn to give a dinner he had long
promised them, that the following day was fixed for the treat, and his
apartments were prepared for the ladies, the gentlemen with one voice
agreeing not to go without them. They also entered into a confederacy
to drink till they had emptied the miser's last bottle, determining to
have one good frolic, as they despaired of ever obtaining a second
at his expence.

Madeline received a few line from Agnes de Clifford, to inform her,
that, by what she could learn from one of the old nuns, the abbess
expected her return to the nunnery the following week, as father
Anselm had signified his disapprobation of her longer absence. This
gave great concern to the young people, which did not pass unobserved
by Lady de Morney, who gently blamed them, adding, as they had been
so long indulged with the company of their friend, they ought to
submit to the will of the father without repining or reluctance.

After a day which appeared to Roseline the longest she had ever lived,
the hour arrived in which they were to revisit the dark abode of
misery and oppression. They found Albert impatiently waiting for
them in the passage, near the foot of the stairs, almost despairing
of their return. Every one carried something for the use and
gratification of the prisoner. Edwin was loaded with books; Madeline
with sweetmeats, wine, and cakes; Roseline with some white meats
and soup. She had likewise prepared a reviving mixture from a recipe
of De Clavering's extracted from a variety of healing herbs, admirably
calculated to restore health and spirits to the fragile frame of the
languid sufferer.

Albert informed them that his master considered the whole of what
had passed the preceding evening as a dream;--had repeatedly
mentioned the good and consoling angels, who had condescended to
visit the couch of a wretch who, almost from his birth, had been an
outcast from society; and, notwithstanding he assured him he would
see them again, he could obtain no credit to his assertion, not
divert his mind from the idea that it was a warning from heaven,
merely to prepare him for a summons before its awful tribunal.

"Hasten, my good friend, (said Roseline,) and undeceive him, by
letting him know we wait here to convince him, if he will receive
us, that we are mere mortals like himself."

Albert did not stop for a second command to execute a commission he
eagerly wished. They followed him; the little dog ran out, and greeted
their arrival with every testimony of joy it was in its nature to
express, and they were requested to walk in the moment they reached
the door of the apartment. They were not only surprised, but highly
gratified at observing the visible change for the better which a few
hours had made in the countenance of their new friend, whose dependence
on their good offices, for many of the necessary comforts of life,
and total seclusion from the world, made very forcible claims on
their hearts.

He arose on their entrance. Edwin flew to embrace him. Madeline held
out her hand, which he gently pressed between his; but, observing
that Roseline's was likewise extended, he dropped the hand of her
friend, and eagerly caught her's, as if he were afraid it should be
wrested from him.

"I would fain tell you what I feel at this moment, (said he,
faintly and fearfully;) but I do not know a language to make myself
understood.--This I know, that yesterday I washed to die, and be
forgotten even by Albert; but now I think, if I could have you always
with me, (stealing a look at Roseline,) hear you talk, and see you
smile, I could be content to live for ever, even in this sad place.
If all other women are like you, how charming must be the world, in
which Albert says there are a vast many! I have often told him, and
he knows why, that I never should like a woman; (here he smiled
expressively on Albert.) I thought they were all very cruel and very
ugly creatures, therefore I concluded, when I first saw you, that
you were angels, or kind and celestial spirits, who came down from
heaven to receive my soul, and carry it to a place of rest."

"Indeed, my good sir, (said Roseline,) you were never more mistaken.
We are like the generality of our sex, but much inferior to many. We
broke in upon you unexpectedly, and you judged merely from feelings
too highly raised, which originated from surprise, and were in part
confirmed by the effect they had on the susceptibility of your nature
and the seclusion of your situation.--I must now entreat you to take
a few spoonfuls of a mixture I have brought you. I am afraid it is not
very pleasant to the taste, but I hope and trust it will be conducive
to your recovery."

She poured some into a tea-cup, and presented it to him; he drank it
immediately. They then produced the more grateful treat they had
brought with them; he at a little cake, and some sweetmeats, with an
avidity and greediness that shocked them,--said they were very fine,
and much better than the liquor.

Edwin next gave him some books, which he opened with eagerness, seemed
vastly delighted with the prints, but shook his head on finding himself
unable to read their contents. He turned over a few of the leaves, and
seemed a good deal chagrined. Edwin explained their titles, and gave
him a few outlines of the works.

"Albert can read them," said he.

"I hope you will soon be able to read them yourself, (replied Edwin:)
we will join with Albert in instructing you."

"Ah! (cried he, shaking his head,) you will soon grow weary of one
so ignorant, so dull as I am; (his eye glanced at Roseline.)--I
belong to no one,--I have no friend but poor Albert; he will not
leave me to die alone in such a place as this."

"My dear sir, (said Albert,) talk not of dying the very first hour
you are beginning to live, I yet trust we shall see many happy years."

He looked melancholy, whispered something they could not perfectly
understand, and appeared wholly lost in his own painful reflections.
Edwin again addressed him.--At hearing his voice he started, and
gazed on him with a wild and vacant stare, as if he had never seen
him before, looked at his dress, then at his own,--seemed struck by
the contrast, and a faint smile came over his features, but it was
the smile of internal sadness.

It will not be thought superfluous, perhaps, if we stop a few moments,
in order to describe, as well as we are able, the face, person, and
dress, of this unfortunate young man. His complexion, from never having
been exposed to either air or sun, was whiter and more delicate that
that of Madeline: his large blue eyes were shaded by deeply-fringed
eye-lashes, and arched with eye-brows which the nicest pencil of the
painter could not have improved. His face was oval, his nose aquiline,
and his mouth so exquisitely formed, as to give grace and expression
to all the other features: he was much thinner, but some inches taller
than Edwin; yet the whole of his appearance shewed that confinement
and ill health had stolen, in their thievish and destroying progress,
many of the natural graces from his face and person: his hair waved
in careless ringlet over his forehead, and hung down  some length on
his shoulders; he was still wrapped in a loose morning gown, wore
slippers, and his linen was of the finest texture.

With some difficulty, but not without the assistance of Albert, they
drew him by degrees into something like conversation; but he did not
appear perfectly to understand all they said; and, when they mentioned
the days beginning to lengthen, the increasing and reviving influence
of the fun, the beaut of the moon and stars, he sighed,--wished he
could see and admire them as other men did, and inquired if they thought
any but himself and Albert were denied so many of the blessings which
he had been told God had given for the use and benefit of all his
creatures. Edwin replied, painful as it was to recollect, he had no
doubt but at that moment thousands of the fellow-mortals sustained
even greater hardships and deprivations than himself.

"Must you and these sweet creatures ever do the same?"

He hoped not, but fortune was so fickle in the favours she bestowed,
and every thing so uncertain, it was impossible to tell what might
or might not happen in the course of a few years.

"It is surely very strange, (said the prisoner,) and I think those
people, whose hard hearts and hands contrived and made prisons, are
the most proper, indeed the only persons who should be forced to
inhabit them."

This observation produced a general smile, which they hoped would
pass unnoticed, but it did not escape him, and he said, while a faint
colour flushed his cheek, he knew he was very ignorant; but he begged
they would not despise him for so great a misfortune. After this he
only ventured to ask a few questions, but at the moment of doing so
seemed to shrink into himself, and to be astonished at his own
temerity. This shyness and reserve they trusted would wear off, as
he became familiarized to their visits and conversation; they therefore
took no notice of his absence or timidity, but endeavoured by every
attention to draw him from his own painful and humiliating reflections,
and by a few well-timed praises strove to give him self-confidence.

After staying as long as time and the nature of their visit would
permit, and giving proper directions to Albert in regard to the
medicines and nourishing restoratives they had brought with them,
they reluctantly arose to depart. Observing their design, he held his
hands before his eyes, to prevent his seeing them go, and exclaimed,
"Don't, don't leave me!--I cannot bear it. I never never shall see
you again:--you will forget me, you will leave me for ever!"

His extreme agitation alarmed and affected them all. They knew not
how to go, and yet to stay longer might risk a discovery.

"Speak, Roseline, (said Edwin,) and if possible quiet these
distressing apprehensions."

Roseline, as soon as she could sufficiently command the tone of her
voice, took hold of his trembling hand, which was cold as death,
and gently intreated him to hear her with composure. He looked at
her with passive acquiescence, and she proceeded to assure him that
it was their united and determined intention to repeat their visits
as often as their own and his situation would permit: but that, for
his sake particularly, they were under the necessity of acting with
caution, and carefully guarding against the possibility of a
discovery.--If he were so much affected when they left him, they
must visit him less frequently than they wished.

"Ah! no, no;--do not think of me, or what I may feel: that is of no
consequence, only say you will come again and again."

"On my honour we will, and continue to do so while you remain an
involuntary resident in this castle."

"I am satisfied, (said he, sighing inwardly as he spoke; then,
fixing his eyes on Roseline,)--if you would come every day,--talk
to me, and look at me thus gently,--if you would continue to pity
my weakness and pardon my ignorance, I should not think this a
prison but a paradise, and could be content to end my useless days
in this dungeon."

This pathetic address Roseline could not acquire sufficient resolution
to answer, and, while her heart felt intolerably oppressed, the silent
rears, which stole softly down her cheek, explained the nature of her
feelings. Madeline, finding the scene was become too painful, rose,
and bade him god night. Roseline gently withdrew the hand which for
some moments had been clasped in his, and Edwin, seeing the necessity
of immediately retiring, tenderly bade him fare-well.--

Finding they were resolute to depart, he dropped on his knees by
the couch, and concealed his face in the pillow. They insisted on
Albert's not leaving his master, and hurried back to their own
apartment in a state of mind difficult to be described, carrying with
them a variety of feelings, which, though new and painful, they
wished should be retained in their remembrance.

As it was now two hours beyond their usual time of going to bed,
the great clock having struck the aweful hour of twelve, Edwin,
without stopping to make any comments on the scene that had so
recently occurred, instantly took his leave. Madeline put on her
night-clothes, and, after talking a few minutes, sunk into the
lethean arms of sleep. Not so her friend; sleep deserted her pillow:
in vain she sought and wished for its approach, to obliterate new
and uncomfortable sensations. It was extremely odd that the image
of the prisoner haunted her imagination with such persevering
obstinacy, that, notwithstanding she closed her eyes, she could not
exclude him from her mental sight; and, what was still more strange
and unaccountable, though she saw he was less polished than those
with whom she was accustomed to associate, without education, and
entirely ignorant of the world,--a prisoner for she knew not what,
yet still she thought, and was extremely angry with herself for so
doing, the he was the handsomest man, and had the most prepossessing
and elegant form she had ever seen. His manners too!--could any
thing be more captivating than the manners of this uninformed son of
nature, whom cruelty and injustice had immured in the dungeons of her
father's castle!

A few hours sleep might, and she trusted would, restore her to a more
just and rational way of thinking; if not, he who caused her judgement
to mislead her would perhaps be the means of its returning to its
proper function.

We will now therefore leave her to try an experiment, which has often
produced as powerful an effect, and, stealing the mind by a temporary
oblivion from the objects of its sudden partiality, has likewise
stolen, by the dawn of the succeeding morning, all recollection of
woes, which, in a moment of unguarded susceptibility, had found a
passage to the heart. Whether it had this convenient soporific, and
be-numbing property on the mind of Roseline, we are not now at liberty
to declare; but, if it should not, we hope some of our readers will
make allowance for the unfashionable taste of a young lady, who lived
so many ages before themselves; who was unhacknied in the devious
paths of life, with a mind unvitiated by pride or the pangs of envy,
and who had seen little or nothing of the world beyond the precincts
of the castle she inhabited.




CHAP. VII.


The next day every one prepared with high glee for Elwyn's promised
treat, and puzzled themselves with various conjectures as to what
kind of feast the miser would set before them. Bertha and Hugh Camelford
were very busy after something which those who saw them concluded would
be productive of mirth or mischief, no two dispositions being more
likely to succeed in a cause for which their humorous talents were
calculated; while poor Elwyn, in secret but unavailing regret, lamented
too late his yielding folly, in having been prevailed on to comply
with what he termed a very foolish and unreasonable request, viz. for
so many people to dine at his expence: but this he wisely kept to
himself, well knowing, if the part understood his sentiments, it would
expose him to their whole artillery of wit and ridicule; he therefore
made all the preparations for an excellent dinner, but his caution,
busy looks, anxiety, and distress, promised a much higher entertainment
than his repast could afford.

The company assembled at the proper time, and were seated in due form
and order, Lady de Morney at the head, and Elwyn at the bottom of
the table; when, having helped most of the party, Camelford requested
him to send him a slice of a large raised pie, which made a
distinguished figure.

Bertha cried out with well-affected terror, "Don't touch it; I am sure
'tis enchanted; I saw the crust move."

"Child, (cried Lady de Morney,) what do you mean?"

"What I say, madam, for indeed it was lifted up."

"Take care what you are apout, Elwyn, (said Camelford,) or, py Cot,
you may cut off the head of a conjurer, who has jumped into the pie
in honour of your feast."

"Suppose we let De Clavering dissect him, (said De Willows;) he
is undoubtedly the best hand at cutting up his own species."

De Clavering, who suspected some joke, cautiously raised up one side
of the crust, when, to the astonishment of the party, out jumped a
squirrel. Happy in having regained its liberty, it sprang across the
table, and immediately made its way into Edeliza's pocket, where it
was accustomed to fun for shelter. She was shocked at the danger from
which her favourite had escaped, caressed the little stranger, and
rejoiced at seeing it unhurt.

Everyone was surprised and alarmed at the unexpected appearance of
poor Pug, while the terror of the master of the ceremonies was somewhat
increased, when he saw a dish of blanc mange, which one of the ladies
was beginning to help, fall, and a variety of the most beautiful
shapes dissolve into water. This produced a general and hearty laugh.

"Fine teceptions these! (said Camelford.)--I suppose we shall find in
the rest of the pies life cats and togs, and see little Pertha turned
into a pillar of salt." As to Pug, he declared by Cot, Tavy Jones, and
the tifel, he never saw a coat run swifter on this belofed Welch mountains,
and he would pet fife hundred kineas he would not be peat if put in
podily fear.

The dishes were removed, and those originally ordered now brought on
to fill their places, which, if not altogether productive of so much
mirth, served to gratify a more craving and imporunate sense.--Elwyn
however was highly provoked and mortified at the tricks which had been
played on him, and swore, if he could discover the perpetrator, he would
insist on an apology, or compel him to take a little cold iron.

"That (said De Clavering) would be rendering your hospitality too
profuse. It would not only produce matter for conversation, but in
all probability furnish me with a job that might puzzle or improve me
in the art of surgery; and, as nature had entailed so many diseases
on us poor mortals, methinks no reasonable man would wish to
increase them."

"But, were it not for the unreasonable, (said De Willows,) you gentlemen
of the lancet and gallipot would not find sufficient opportunities to
employ your genius, and give such proofs of your chirurgical skill
and abilities."

"On my poor poty (said Hugh Camelford) I hope their apilities never will
be tried. Petter to eat squirrels, as Elwyn would have tempted us to do,
than be cutting up one another for pies and pasties!"

De Huntingfield unfortunately whispered to Roseline that he never saw
her so unusually serious, adding, he supposed she was thinking of
matrimony, and advised her to begin her attacks against Elwyn, while
the generous and hospitable fit was upon him; for, if she permitted
it to evaporate, Plutus, in all probability would again render every
avenue to his heart inaccessible to the power of love.

This remark brought the roses into her cheeks. She however denied
having formed any designs on one whose predominant passion set every
other at defiance, and declared herself perfectly guiltless of all
such hostile intentions. The hint however was sufficient to put her
upon her guard, and she exerted herself to prevent any further
observations of the like sort.

Madeline, now satisfied that the heart of Edwin was as much the slave
of the tender passion as her own, and beat responsive to her every
wish, would have relished the cheerful scene, had she not, in the
very moment of enjoyment, recollected it was the last time, for
perhaps a long long tiresome period, that she should make one of
the happy party.

Edwin, who guessed the nature of her feelings, sympathized too much
with her to be more at ease. De Clavering, who observed them both,
gave a humorous dissertation on the powers of sympathy, and execrated
its effects. The day however passed pleasantly, and the evening
concluded with a dance, in which the lively Bertha was permitted to
join, and had her favourite Hugh Camelford for a partner.--Edwin
withdrew with the ladies at an early hour. The rest of the gentlemen
returned with Elwyn to his apartment, much against his inclination,
and did not leave him till they had literally fulfilled their agreement
of emptying the miser's last bottle; then, consigning him to the care
of his servant, with difficulty found their way to their own rooms.

Neither Edwin nor his sister however had forgotten their unfortunate
friends. The former had stolen an opportunity of conveying a few nice
things to the dungeon, had delivered them to Albert, and spent half
an hour with his master, promising to renew his visit in the evening,
accompanied by the ladies. This threw a gleam of joy over the
countenance of the prisoner, who assured him he would not again
distress them by shewing so much reluctance at parting.

Albert was pressed by Edwin to enforce the necessity of his master's
endeavouring to recover all that he had lost of his reading, and by
that means acquire a proper and useful knowledge of the customs and
manners of the world, which would be absolutely essential to the
rendering it pleasant, should he ever obtain his freedom, and become
an active member of society.

"I shall find but little trouble, sir, (replied this excellent servant,)
in doing that which my poor master has himself been so anxious to
accomplish ever since he saw you and the sweet ladies, who have made
our situation in comparison comfortable. Nature had kindly done much
for him, education scarcely any thing. Now I foresee all will be right;
he is roused from his lethargy of desponding misery, and laments his
own ignorance in language, that shew him truly sensible of it. He has
insisted on being better dressed against the evening, and the book has
not been five minutes out of his hand since you left him."

"I will give you all the assistance in my power, (said Edwin,) and
fortunately at this time my father's absence renders the design less
hazardous. I have likewise another plan in my head, which I hope will
not only greatly contribute to his comfort, but do much towards the
more perfect re-establishment of his health, which I now begin to
think is not quite in the hopeless state the alarming situation in
which I first saw him led me to imagine."

Edwin next inquired of Albert how his master's wardrobe was furnished.
"I recollect (said he) you mentioned his desire of changing his dress.
I can supply his with any thing he wants."

"In that respect, sir, my master has no occasion to tax your bounty.
Toys and fine clothes were never denied, and for a long time they
had their influence, and served to amuse him."

"Good God! (said Edwin,) that this mystery could be explained!"

Albert shook his head, and immediately withdrew.

In the evening, Edwin, his sister, and Madeline, visited the prisoner;
but, if they were surprised before at the happy alteration a few hours
had produced in his looks, how much more so were they now at observing
the still greater progress in the improvement both of his health and
spirits.--He was drest in the most fashionable stile of the times,
with an elegance and neatness that astonished them: every part of his
dress was such as was only worn by persons of the highest rank,--his
clothes richly trimmed, his stockings silk, and his shoes fastened
with gold clasps.

At the approach of Roseline and her friend, his eyes sparkled with
delight. In fact, he appeared like one raised from the grave by a
miracle,--new fashioned and created. It was visible to all the party
that his chief attention was directed to Roseline. He watched her
every look, and the language of his artless soul was easily read in
every expressive and animated feature.

They were now tolerably cheerful. His fear, reserve, and timidity,
began gradually to wear off. He even ventured to address a question
to Madeline, and to gaze with tender earnestness on her friend. Edwin,
with an arch smile, reminded them it would be time to retire, when
Roseline had given proper directions respecting her patient, from whose
rapid recovery he foretold she would reap such honours as would firmly
establish her reputation, as the first female physician in the world.

"And as the best, the most gentle of her sex," added the prisoner,
blushing deeply as he ventured to express his gratitude.--"I owe
her more than life,--more than--"

"A truce with your thanks, my good friend, (cried Roseline, now
blushing in her turn.) and prove, you value our endeavours to render
you more comfortable by taking the utmost care of yourself, and by
not permitting you mind to swell on any circumstance likely to agitate
and distress you."

He promised to be directed by his friends, and to follow strictly
all their injunctions. Again they could not prevail on themselves
to leave him, till the night was pretty far advanced. On receiving a
promise from Edwin to visit him again the next morning, and one from
the ladies to be with him in the evening, he saw them depart without
any violent agitation; yet a visible gloom and reluctance pervaded
his features, not to be concealed by one who never had formed an idea
that it was either necessary or possible to disguise the feelings,
or disavow the sentiments of the heart.

Happy state of unspotted unsuspecting integrity! when no pangs of
guilt harass and corrode the mind with unceasing anguish! We can
scarcely prevail upon ourselves (when we recollect it incorruptible
advantages) to think such an enviable portion of internal peace
dearly purchased even with the loss of liberty; for, amidst all his
sufferings, out hapless prisoner could not recall on action that hung
heavy on his mind, or that awakened the scorpion sting of a reproaching
conscience. His life might justly be compared to the spotless pages
of a book, whose leaves no blot had yet defiled, but which remained
properly prepared to receive the fairest and most lasting impressions.

The expected summons for Madeline's return to the nunnery arrived.
However reluctant to obey so unwelcome a mandate, she was obliged
to comply. The parting between the lovers was attended with many
uncomfortable and unpleasant feelings.--Melancholy presentiments
were encouraged, which increased the distresses of the moment. She
could not leave the prisoner without shedding many tears. She even
envied his situation, and when she compared it with her own, it did
not appear so hopeless and solitary. He still retained on faithful
friend, and had lately met with others, who, if not so long known,
were equally attached to him: He would likewise see Edwin every day,
while she, immured in the hor d*val of a nunnery, as inimical to her
felicity as those by which he was surrounded had till then proved
to his, would be denied even the soothing influence of hope;--that
ignis fatuus of the mind had deserted its post, and left it open to
the sad encroachments of fruitless and unavailing regret.--Most severely
did she now condemn herself for every having quitted the holy asylum,
in which, if she had not found happiness, she had never felt such
conflicts as those she now endured.

Lady de Morney and Roseline accompanied her to the nunnery, and
delivered her up to the maternal care of the abbess, and the protection
of father Anselm. They both appeared pleased and satisfied with her
ready compliance with their commands, and rejoiced to see her look so
well. They had suffered great anxiety on her account, and the father,
who had visited her frequently during her indisposition, and had
cherished bu few hopes of her recovery, now told her he trusted she
would not more wish to forsake their holy sanctuary, as he doubted
not her illness was a penance inflicted by Providence for leaving it
at a season so particularly appropriated to the sacred duties of
the church.

Roseline, before she left the nunnery, accompanied Madeline to her cell,
the abbess having granted her this indulgence. Here they unobserved gave
way to the sad luxury of tears. They wept on each other's bosom, and the
sobbing Madeline, deaf to the soothing consolations of her sympathizing
friend, requested her to present Edwin with her grateful acknowledgements
for his many kind attentions, and which in the moment of parting she was
unable to express. She hoped he would not forget her, and begged his
sister to assure him, that, if she were compelled to take the veil, she
should retain his image in her heart, though her life were dedicated to
the service of her God. She likewise cautioned Roseline to beware, and
guard against the fly and dangerous intrusions of love, which brought
with them innumerable sorrows, and never to encourage hopes, as she had
done, which she feared would end in disappointment and misery.

Roseline knew these hints alluded to the prisoner; the blush which
tinged her cheek convinced her friend she was perfectly understood.
Indeed, she had before ventured to tell her, that, in her attentions
to relieve the miseries she commiserated, she might become too tenderly
a sharer in them, and, in freeing the captive from his fetters, might
herself be enslaved. Roseline thanked her friend, but denied the caution
being necessary, and instantly tool her leave, in order to put an end
to a conversation which now became unpleasant, and gave her more pain
than she chose to acknowledge.

The evening, as may be supposed, passed slowly and heavily at the
castle. Roseline felt unfeigned regret at the departure of her friend,
and Edwin found in her absence the deprivation of happiness; yet, as
it was unavoidable, he determined as much as possible to conceal his
distress from the prying eye of suspicion, and to employ every hour
he could command, in the service of the unfortunate prisoner, to whom
he felt himself irresistibly and unaccountably attached; but Edwin,
amidst his family at the castle, was not less internally wretched
than poor Madeline, counting her beads in her silent and solitary cell.

At the usual time Roseline and her brother revisited the interesting
object of her compassion. He expressed such rapture at seeing them,
and made so many acknowledgements for their friendship, that their
minds became insensibly harmonized, and their attention engaged.

Edwin now for the first time proposed removing his friend from the
dungeon to the haunted chamber, which no one dared to approach, and
which we before mentioned as having an entrance from the South tower.
Roseline obtained permission of her mother to keep possession of the
apartment into which she had accompanied Madeline; therefore they
thought his removal could be easily accomplished without any risk of
a discovery. It was agreed that Albert should attend the cells in
order to take away the provision regularly carried there. All these
matters settled, the following evening was appointed for the
accomplishment of their purpose, at the same time Edwin cherished
the most sanguine hopes that, with the assistance of Albert, and by
means of the subterraneous passage, he might sometimes obtain a
stolen interview with Madeline.

The next night Edwin, his sister, and Albert, accompanied the prisoner
to his destined apartment; but to describe his gratitude and joy, at
finding himself in a situation so comfortable and airy, would be
impossible. Every thing was new and delightful, and in the morning,
when the light (which but dimly enlivened his chamber on his arrival)
broke in upon his astonished sight, his raptures were alarming, and
his faithful attendant, with the utmost difficulty, prevailed on him
to confine them within the bounds of moderation, and cautiously to
indulge himself in looking at objects so surprising, but to other
people so familiar, they they seldom could spare a moment to
contemplate them.

When he viewed the sun, from one of the windows of his room, rising
in its utmost splendor, had not Albert prevented him, he had fallen
on his knees, and worshipped the brilliant luminary.--He observed
the birds with ecstacy, as they lightly skimmed through the boundless
regions of the air, and listened with a kind of throbbing agitation
as the lark warbled forth her morning oraisons, and, not till he had
shed tears, could he reduce his feelings to any degree of composure.
He admired the trees; his eyes rested on some of the distant hills,
and he told Albert he did not think the world had been so large and
fine a place. He next amused himself with looking round his apartment,
and at every little interval gave way to the effusions of genuine
transport.

Can it be wondered that so helpless a being should feel, on
experiencing such a change, more than mere language could express!
Liberated from misery by the benevolence of strangers,--a thousand
comforts bestowed which he had despaired of ever tasting, his
gratitude was as unlimited as his joy, and I am sure all my readers
will pardon him for still continuing to think his benefactors more
than mortal; yet at times he could recollect, with a sigh of trembling
regret, the dangers to which they exposed themselves in order to make
him happy.--Their parents, too, might shut them in a dungeon for their
disobedience. These reflections fortunately abated the fervour of this
high wrought feelings, or in all probability he would have brought on
a return of those complaints which had so much interested his young
friends in his behalf.--In a few hours he became more composed, and
endeavoured to remark every thing around him with serenity. As he was
now situated, Edwin and his sister could see him several times a day
without inconvenience or danger, and, to guard against any surprise,
they had taken care to lock the door at the foot of the stairs, strongly
fastened it within-side, and concealed the key, that none of the family
might wander that way.

In the evening, a new scene presented itself to the fight of the
prisoner, The moon and stars were pointed out to him by Edwin. At
first he mistook the moon for another sun, less brilliant, but as
beautiful. The stars he called little suns, and attempted to count
their number; and, while his eyes were raised in silent rapture to
the spangled firmament, he inquired why so much more pains had been
taken to decorate the heavens for the night, when mortals slept, than
for the day, when all nature was awake to wonder and adore. So delighted
was he with the sombre beauties of this all astonishing scene, that
it was with the utmost difficulty, after Edwin left him, that Albert
could prevail upon him to think of retiring to rest. No sooner however
was he convinced that his faithful attendant had lost in the arms of
sleep all remembrance of those scenes which kept him waking, than
her softly stole to the window, where he remained till the dews of
night and the cold blasts of an easterly wind drove him again to
his bed.

The few necessary articles which had been allowed him in his former
abode were now removed to his present one, and such added as would
tend to his comfort and convevience. As his food in the dungeon had
been conveyed to him by means of a turning cupboard, his having vacated
it could not be known so long as Albert attended at the proper times
to receive it; and, Edwin having shewn him another secret way, which
led from under the stairs in the South tower to his old habitation,
he would be able to go as often as he pleased, without any danger
of being discovered.

It was now two months after the prisoner's removal before Sir Philip
de Morney was able to fix a time for his return. A letter than arrived,
in which he mentioned, that, by the end of another fortnight, he hoped
to reach the castle. He informed Lady de Morney that he should bring
a friend with him for whom he had the highest regard, and he trusted
she would make such necessary preparations for his reception, as would
serve not only to prove the sincerity of his attachment, but the high
respect and esteem in which he was held by the rest of the family;
telling her it was no less a personage than Baron Fitzosbourne,
whose friendship had done him much honour, and in whose society
he found pleasure.

Lady de Morney, who perfectly understood by her husband's letter,
how anxious he was that his friend should be received with the utmost
splendour and hospitality, gave such orders as she hoped would
please the one and gratify the other.

In the mean while, the prisoner made such rapid improvements, as
astonished and delighted his youthful instructors. He was indefatigable
in storing his mind with all the knowledge the best authors could
impart. With returning health his memory regained its former power,
and all the natural and brilliant faculties of his mind recovered
their usual strength, and proved he was endowed with more than common
capacity and genius. His elegant form, animated features,--the serene,
ensnaring gentleness of his manners, and the mild sweetness of his
disposition, unfolded themselves by degrees, and endeared him beyond
expression to his friends.

As a curious and rare plant, guarded by the active hand, and watched
by the careful eye of the gardener, raises or depresses his hopes at
first putting forth its tender blossoms, till a kind and congenial
season brings it to maturity, and its beauties, suddenly bursting
on the sight, prove an ample reward for his fostering care,--so did
the heart of Roseline expand and rejoice at every proof the prisoner
gave of the goodness of his disposition, and the superior excellence
of his understanding.

It was clearly visible to Edwin and to Albert that a mutual passion
united the prisoner and Roseline, while every fleeting hour served more
and more to endear them to each other. Edwin, already entangled in
the toils of hopeless love, and enduring all the pangs of despair and
apprehension, trembled for the fate of a sister for whom he felt an
uncommon degree of fraternal affection, but to whom he could not
prevail on himself to mention a subject so delicate and distressing. The
prisoner made no attempt to conceal his ardent love for Roseline:--it
was an effort as far beyond his comprehension as his power, and,
though, he made no formal declaration, every word, look, and action,
betrayed the situation of his heart. Of the world he was totally
ignorant; of marriage he had not even thought,--that being a subject on
which they had never conversed, and his own situation, desperate and
hopeless as it was, now seldom engaged his attention. Roseline, and
Roseline alone, engrossed his every idea: while he saw her smile, and
heard the sound of her voice, he was contented and happy, and, when
she was absent, the wish, of rendering himself more worthy and better
able to converse with her, stimulated him to pay unremitting attention
to his own improvement, and the instructions he received; but, had he
been assured he should see her no more, he would have sunk into the
same apathy and indifference for life and its enjoyments from which
her kindness had drawn him.

After Madeline had left the castle, and before the return of Sir Philip,
Edwin, at the utmost risk of discovery, which would have involved him
and the object of his regard in danger and difficulties, prevailed upon
her to grant him several interviews in the chapel of the nunnery. One
night, Albert, having agreed to accompany him through the subterranean
passage, the trembling nun met them at their entrance, and seated near
the tomb which concealed the door, listened to the vows of her
lover.--Equally reluctant to part, they sat longer than usual, and
heard footsteps in the chapel. Madelin rightly concluded it was one
of the friars come to say mass for the soul of a nun lately dead. When
the ceremony was ended he departed, and, as the door closed after him,
the resolution of Madeline revived. She knew if they had been discovered,
even the life of Edwin would not be secure, and that she should
instantly be compelled to take those vows from which there was no
release but death.

Her own imprudence, and the danger to which her lover was exposed,
struck so forcibly upon her mind, that after he left her she could
scarcely acquire courage to return to the nunnery; and, as she passed
the aweful and silent receptacles of the dead, she was almost led to
think she heard a friendly voice warn her never again to be guilty
of so sacrilegious a crime. She glided quickly by the grave of the
nun who had been interred but a few days, and even imagined she could
perceive the earth move.--She had no sooner reached the cell, (into
which she hurried without daring to look to the right or to the left,
lest she should see the frowning spirit of some departed sister,)
than she fell on her knees, and earnestly intreated forgiveness of
the holy virgin.  The next morning, far from finding her terrors abate,
they fained still greater ascendancy over her mind, by hearing that
father Anselm had been making inquiries about some footsteps he had
observed in the chapel when he went to early prayers. Recollecting
the unguarded warmth of Edwin's temper, and the eager tenderness with
which in an hour of yielding softness he prevailed upon her to indulge
him with these stolen interviews, she was fearful of acquainting him
that it was her determination to grant no more.--She wrote to her
friend Roseline, and entreated her to persuade her brother not to make
any attempts in future to see her in the chapel; but to them she left
the power of procuring as many opportunities as possible of meeting
without danger. She sincerely lamented being obliged to deprive herself
of the company of a lover to whom she was tenderly attached, and for
whose sake she was become an unwilling votary in the service of her God.

This letter was instantly communicated to Edwin by his sister. He could
not at first be easily reconciled to a measure so repugnant to his
feelings; but Roseline adding her intreaties to those of Madeline, and
pointing out the necessity of it, he became more willing to observe
the greatest caution, and to practise the most rigid present self-denial,
in order to secure his future happiness. She reminded him this it was
now four months before Madeline would enter on her year of probation,
previous to which something might happen favourable to their wishes;
observing, that their mother could at any time prevail upon the abbess
to grant Madeline leave for visiting the castle. These arguments had
so much effect, that Edwin promised his sister to make no farther
clandestine attempts to see her friend, till all other means were
rendered impracticable.

It happened about this time that Roseline was prevented, by a slight
indisposition, from visiting the prisoner for four or five days. At
first his alarm and distress were unspeakable. It was scarcely possible
to convince him that it was owing to ill health he did not see her,
and his restless impatience would have now betrayed the secret of his
heart, had it not before been discovered. He neither ate not slept;
all his spirits forsook him: the sun was no longer admired, the moon
and stars were deprived of their lustre. He wished to shun the light,
and, had all nature been lost in universal chaos, it had been a matter
of indifference now he saw not Roseline: he wondered what he could have
found to admire in any thing with which she was not connected.

Albert observed his master was very busy with his pen, and, in removing
a portfolio from his writing table, papers containing the following
sonnets dropped on the floor. He read and copied them, and gave them to
Edwin the next time he saw him.

Though they were written by one who had never drank at the Parnassian
fount, love had given such pathos to the language of taste and nature,
that he was charmed, and could not prevail on himself to with-hold
such a treasure from his sister, to whom in justice they belonged,
and who like another Iphigenia had in a manner raised a phoenix from
the same inanimate materials of which a Cymon had been formed.

Roseline, as she read the interesting proofs of genius and affection,
which she wanted not to convince her she was sincerely beloved, shrunk
from the agitated and trembling feeling of her own heart, which too
well informed her he had nothing to fear from not meeting an equal
return of regard. Absence had been as painful to her as it had proved
to the prisoner, whom love had taught a lesson equally charming and
delightful.

     -   -   -   -   -   -   -

        SONNETS TO ROSELINE.

     -   -   -   -   -   -   -

         SONNET THE FIRST.

    Ah! what to me are birds or flow'rs,
      The sun's most radiant light!
    I pine away the ling'ring hours,
      And sigh for endless night.
  Come, Roseline, sweet maid, on roses borne,
  Sweet as thyself,--unguarded by a thorn!

     -   -   -   -   -   -

         SONNET THE SECOND.

    Fair Roseline, why didst thou chase the gloom
      Which late envelop'd my benighted mind!
    Why didst thou snatch me from a living tomb
      To sigh my hopeless sorrows to the wind!
  Why was I caught in love's bewitching snare,--
  Believ'd thee gentle, tender, kind, and fair!

    Now thou art absent, my desponding soul
      Has lost its wonted pow'rs in sad despair;
    Reason no more mu passion can controul;
      Joy flies with thee, and nought remains but care.
  The blessings thou hast giv'n no more have charms
  And my rack'd mind is torn with wild alarms.

    With soothing words thou didst my cares beguile,
      Taught me the page of learning to explore,
    Banish'd despondence with a gentle smile,--
      Then left me solitary, sad, and poor.
  Would'st thou return, and to my pray'r incline,
  Methinks a dungeon's gloom would be divine!

    If I no more thy beauties must behold,
      Death soon will free me from this painful smart;
    If a proud rival win thee by his gold,
      Soon will despair and anguish break my heart.
  But, though all cares, all sorrows should be mine,
  Heaven shower its brightest gifts on Roseline!

     -   -   -   -   -   -

         SONNET THE THIRD

    No more for liberty I pine,
      No more for freedom crave;
    My heart, dear Roseline, is thine,--
      Thy fond, thy faithful slave.

    First taught by thee I own'd love's pow'r,
      And yielded to my chain;
    Sigh through each sad and cheerless hour,
      Yet bless the pleasing pain.

    Sweet Roseline, my heart is thine,
      It beats alone for thee;
    In pity to my vows incline,
      Or set the captive free.

    Like a poor bird, in his lone cage,
      I pine and flutter round,
    Sullen and sad, in fruitless rage,
      Yet still in fetters bound.




CHAP. VIII.


Thus stood matters at the castle, when Sir Philip de Morney
returned, accompanied by his friend, Baron Fitzosbourne, who was
highly gratified by the cordial and respectful reception he met with.
Every one vying with each other in their endeavours to amuse him,
he assumed the most conciliating manners, appeared pleased and good
humoured, paid the most flattering attention to the young ladies,
and bestowed the warmest encomiums on their beauty and accomplishments;
at the same time admiring, or pretending to admire, the maturer graces
of the mother, who had given to the world a race of women fairer than
the first daughters of creation, and, to render the gift complete,
had stored their minds with a fund of knowledge that could put
philosophy to the blush at its own ignorance.

Sir Philip assiduously courted the Baron, seemed to watch his looks,
and to make it his whole study to oblige him,--thought as he thought,
and, whatever he recommended, was sure to approve. Lady de Morney,
seeing her husband so anxious to please, followed his example, not
doubting but he had good and sufficient reasons for what he did. She
requested her children strictly to observe the same conduct, with
which request they all at first readily complied, and exerted
themselves to entertain their noble guest. Edwin was honoured with
particular marks of his favour and approbation: he promised his best
interest to obtain him promotion in the army, when he found that was
the profession for which he was designed.

The Baron was nearly as old as his friend Sir Philip. In fact, they
had received the first rudiments of their education at the same
school, and under the same makers; and, though their pursuits were
alike, they had been thrown into a very different situations, but
ever retained a pleased remembrance of their boyish friendship, and
took every opportunity of keeping it alive, and serving each other.
The Baron, though large and robust, was neither clumsy not forbidding
in his appearance. His eyes were penetrating; he looked the warrior,
and seemed formed to command and be obeyed. He was tall, and had an
air of grandeur about him that bespoke the man of fashion: his voice
was not unpleasing; but he was rigid and austere with his servants and
dependants; and, though upon the whole they found him a generous master,
as he had nothing conciliating in his manner to them, they took every
opportunity of abusing him; for, though they durst not venture to
speak before him, they made themselves amends when they joined their
companions in the kitchen, by giving such traits of his character,
as not only shocked them, but made them feel with redoubled gratitude
the happy difference of their own situation.

Roseline, while she was compelled to treat her father's visitor with
attention and respect, felt an invincible disgust whenever he addressed
her, and attempted to give specimens of his gallantry, which was often
the case; but, if he took hold of her hand, she shrunk from his touch
as she would from that of a snake, and trembled, she knew not why, if
she saw him looking earnestly at her face.

Edeliza laughed at and detested him. She slily compare him with
De Willows, and wondered how nature could have contrived to form two
creatures so different from each other. Bertha wished to pull off
his ugly great wig, and to have it stuck upon one of the towers,
observing, that, if his frightful face were seen from another, no
enemy would ever come near them. How were they all struck with sorrow
when they found he was to spend the whole summer at the castle.
Roseline, with more earnestness than usual, questioned her mother
as to the truth of this report, but received only an evasive answer,
that the length of the Baron's stay depended on a circumstance not
yet determined.

"I sincerely hope, my dear madam, whatever it may be, that it will
at least prove unfavourable to his continuance here. My father may,
and I dare say has, just reasons for esteeming him, though no one but
himself can discover them. Every one else dislikes him, and I shall
most truly rejoice when he takes himself away."

"My dear girl, (said Lady de Morney,) consider the Baron's rank, and
the dignity of his character."

"I do consider them (she replied) as the greatest misfortunes that
could happen to any one, unless accompanied with good humour and
humility; but I think it particularly hard that other must suffer
so many mortifications because the Baron is a great man."

Again she was requested by her mother, who could scarcely forbear
smiling at the seriousness of her manner, to recollect that men of
his consequence could not bring themselves to act as if they were
upon a level with their inferiors.

"The more is the pity, (said Roseline;) therefore, my good mother,
it would be unnecessary for me to consider any thing about the Baron's
importance, since he thinks so much and so highly of it himself: but
I do not see, for my part, why rank and fortune should tempt their
possessors to assume so much on merely accidental advantages; or why
people, distinguished as their favourites, should have a greater right
to think and act as they please than those less fortunate. We were
much happier and more cheerful before he came among us, and my father
more indulgent."

"Your father (said Lady de Morney, with the utmost earnestness) is,
I have no doubt, perfectly satisfied that he is acting right, and
therefore you, Roseline, must be blameable in the presuming to call
his conduct in question. I insist, as you value his and my favour,
that you never again address me on this subject; and let me advise
you, if you with to be happy, to shew no disgust to the Baron, but
receive his attentions with politeness and good humour."

On saying this, she withdrew, and left Roseline, struck dumb with
surprise, to form what conclusions she pleased. She knew not what to
think from this unusually strange and unpleasant conversation, and
could not comprehend either her father's or mother's reasons for being
so much attached to any one, whatever might be his ranks, who was so
little formed to excite any feelings but those of disgust in the
minds of those unfortunate people who whom he condescended to associate.
She saw and lamented that, since the Baron's arrival, neither
De Clavering, De Willows, nor Hugh Camelford, came without a formal
invitation from her father, while the reserve which prevailed in
their parties banished all that enlivening conversation that once
rendered them so pleasant. Her sisters too, the dear Edeliza, and
the sweet Bertha, were kept under so much restraint before this
great personage, they seemed almost afraid to speak.

Roseline, to shake off for a time these uncomfortable reflections,
stole into the prisoner's room, in which she seldom failed to find
her brother: there she lost all remembrance of the Baron; and, in
conversing with friends so dear to her heart, progressively recovered
that native cheerfulness which was one of the most engaging features
of her character.--The sonnets, which her brother had so recently
given her, not only served to raise her spirits, but had made an
indelible impression on her mind. She smiled with something more
than even her usual complacency on this love-taught poet. Of his
tenderness and sincerity she could cherish no doubt. His honour and
worth it was equally impossible to suspect. No one knew them better,--no
one estimated them so highly as herself. To suppose he could be less
amiable, less deserving of her attachment, would have appeared to
her a crime of the most enormous magnitude. Thus did the fond effusions
of love throw a veil over the eyes of their artless votary, in order
to give a fair colouring, and to reconcile her to a conduct which, in
another, her prudence would have taught her to condemn; but thus it
is with too many erring mortals: when once they become the hood-winked
slaves of any predominant passion, they are not only regardless of the
world's opinion, but insensible to the secret admonitions of that
silent monitor, which they carry in their bosom. Roseline as first
acted merely from the generous impulse of pity and universal benevolence;
but, in so doing, she admitted a guest to dispute with them a  place
in her breast, which neither time, reason, nor prudence, could banish
thence.

Our artless heroine was unfortunately the darling child of sensibility,
and her mind so susceptible of the miseries and misfortunes of others,
that, from the moment she discovered them, they became her own. What
then must be the poignancy of her feelings, when she reflected on the
dependent, helpless, and unprovided state of a lover, dearer to her
than life!--who dared not disclose even his name,--whose blameless
conduct proved to her partial judgement that he suffered unjustly, and
whose virtues could alone reconcile her to herself for having risked
so much on his account, and entrusted her heart to the keeping of one
whose situation precluded hope,--who had declared he belonged to no
one,--a prisoner, a stranger, without fortune or friends: yet, think
as she would, these cruel circumstances, after the strictest
investigation, acted as a talisman in favour of her lover.

The life, which she fancied, under Providence, she had been the
humble means of preserving, she concluded it was now her duty to
render happy; therefore, to deprive it of its value, by affecting an
indifference she did not feel, was as far from her power as her
inclination; yet there were moments when she recollected, with the
severest anguish, how much her brother, as well as herself, was acting
in opposition to the designs and will of her parent. To deceive such
parents was a thought which, in her most impassioned moments, she
could not dwell upon, but love and sensibility had woven their webs
so close around her heart, that she struggled in vain to disentangle
herself from the bewitching snare.

Sensibility I have long thought, nine times out of ten, proves a
source of misery to the generous and benevolent, and as often is
merely the boast of the ignorant, who pretend to be overstocked with
the milk of human kindness, and whose feelings are equally excited
by the death of a husband or a lap-dog. I am satisfied there is no
blessing more earnestly to be wished for than a calm and composed
resignation to the events of this life, and all its complicated
concerns.--It appears rather an Irishism, that to be happy we must
become indifferent,--but so it is.

Real sensibility is of all burthens the heaviest to bear. Long
experience and careful observation have convinced me too painfully
of this truth. A thousand and a thousand times I have shed torrents
of tears, and felt the most tormenting anxiety for those who would
have seen me with the most stoical apathy begging through the street
for bread. The pleasures attending high-raised sensibility are so
much over-balanced by the painful effects they produce, that I protest
I had rather be an oak, or a cabbage, than alive to such every-varying
and corrosive feelings, which act upon the human mind as slow poison
would upon the body.

When Roseline was going to bed, the servant who attended her, and
who, from having lived some years in the family, was indulged in
the habit of conversing familiarly with the young ladies, determined
to get rid of a kind of confidential secret, which had been entrusted
to her by one of her fellow-servants.

"Laws, Miss Roseline, (said she,) what think you that frightful old
Baron comed here for?--As I live I should not have dreamed of any
thing so ludicurst!"--

"Came for? (replied Roseline,)--why he came to see my father to be
sure;--what else could be his inducement for visiting this
stupid place?"

"Ha, ha! I thought I should poze you, miss, (cried Audrey, drawing
herself up, and giggling at her own consequence,)--why, as sure as
you be borned and christened, he comed here to pick up a wife, if
he can meet with one to please his own superannuated meagrims; and
his man, Pedro, thinks as how a person I could name would suit him
to a tee, but I thinks otherwise.--Such an old frumpish piece of crazy
furniture, says I, will not suit any of the ladies that belongs to
the noble genitors of Bungay Castle and its henvirons. 'You my be
mistaken, dame, said the saucy fellow;--if they suit my master, my
master may suit them sure, for he is as rich,--as rich as Crasus."

"For heaven's sake, (said Roseline,) what nonsense have you picked
up? You must not presume, Audrey, to speak of the Baron in so
disrespectful a manner. If my father and mother heard you, I am not
sure that you would be permitted to stay another night in the castle."

"It would be a good story, indeed, (resumed the talkative Abigail,)
to turn away a servant for such an offence! As I have a soul, which,
by the goodness of father Anselm, I hope to get saved, my heart bleeds
for you, miss, and I could claw out his ugly, staring eyes for to go
for to think that you, who be so sweet tempered, and kind, and affabel,
to your unfeerors, should have to nurse his crazy old carcase.--'Tis
vexing to--"

Roseline had started up in her bed as soon as she found herself so
strangely introduced with the Baron, and seeing that Audrey had taken
up the candle in order to leave the room, gently called her back,
and begged some explanation of what she had heard, which she declared
herself unable to comprehend.

"Mayhap you are;--so much the better, (said Audrey.)--Less said is
soonest mended, as I have gone to the end of my line;--I may be
turned away if I assume to speak of the beautiful old Baron;--things
will all come out in time;--I can be spectful to my betters:--they
that link an old husband let them have him;--'tis no bread and butter
of mine.--Good night, miss;--the Baron is a fine old Gracian, and
will make his lady marvelly happy."

Saying this, she left the room, and Roseline was too much displeased
to call her back a second time, but determined to question her still
farther the first opportunity. "The Baron came to the castle for a
wife!"--It was too ridiculous to be believed; but, if he did, he
could not possibly think of uniting himself with her! Servants were
ever prying into the secrets of their betters, or forming such stories
as only very ignorant people could think of inventing.

She now went to sleep, forgot the Baron, and dreamed of the prisoner,
whom her fancy represented as being released from confinement, and
eager, with the consent of Sir Philip, to lead her in triumph to the
altar of Hymen. To the delusive excursions of the soul we will for
the present consign her; but, before we take leave of the inhabitants
of the castle for the night, we will just take a peep into the kitchen,
where, around a blazing fire, spread on a hearth four yards wide, were
seated several of the domestics, earnestly engaged in talking over
the affairs of the family, each of them drawing the character of their
master or mistress, as the humour of the moment dictated, and giving
their opinions of actions, the motives of which they knew so little,
that they were just as able without a fair and candid examination.

Sir Philip, it was said, was become quite proud and penurious,--the
young ladies troublesome,--and Lady De Morney cross, whimsical, and
suspicious. Suddenly the door burst open, and a young man, who had
been for some time an assistant in the stables, tumbled into the
kitchen, and, with terror depicted on his countenance, exclaimed, "I
saw it,--I saw it!==I saw the light with my own eyes!--The ghost
followed me up to the door, and then vanished in a flash of fire!--Shut
the door, or it may get in!"

This in a moment alarmed the whole set; they all crowded round the
terrified man, and with one voice eagerly inquired what ghost, what
lights he meant? and when and where he had seen them? After drinking
a copious draught of ale, he became able to satisfy the curiosity he
had excited, and told them, as he was coming from the stables, just
as he passed the gate of the inner ballium, and was within forty yards
of the South tower, he saw a light as plain as ever he had seen one
in his life, through one of the grated windows, and, after it had
disappeared a few seconds, it appeared again at a much lower window,
flashed upon the wall, and smelt like sulphur. At the moment it
vanished the second time, he saw something all in white, which he
thought glided past him, but, on looking behind him, it was there
also, and it had actually followed him till he fell into the kitchen.

"Then, as sure as we are alive,(said one of the grooms,) Thomas has
seen the ghost of the lady who died for love of the young officer
that was put to death in the dungeons. I have heard my grandfather
say a thousand times he must have died innocent, for he was a bold
as a lion till his last gasp."

"Well, (said one of the women-servants,) I shall be afraid to stir out
after dark, if these confounded ghosts are again found taking their
nightly rambles, and prying into every thing that is going forwards."

"I always knew (said another) this castle was disturbed ever since
the great clock struck twelve twice in one night; for what on earth
could touch it at that time, if it had not been a spirit?"

"Ah! (said a third,) no doubt there have been sad doings in the castle."

"Not since we came to it, (replied an old grey-headed footman.) My
master has practised no deeds of darkness that would bring the dead
from their graves. As to what was done before our time, that can be
no business of ours, and I don't see how any ghost can have a right
to frighten and interrupt, either by day or night, those who were
never acquainted with it."

"Christ Jesus preserve us! (cried on of the maids,) I verily thinks
I saw something glide past that door! Surely father Anselm should be
sent for to give them absolution:--There! did you not hear that rustling?"

"I see and hear nothing, (said the before mentioned old servant,)
but what I wish neither to see not hear. You are all a parcel of
superstitious ignorant fools, and, if my master should once find
out what cowards you all are, he would soon compel you to give place
to a bolder set. Come, come, let us go to bed, and leave the ghosts
to do the same."

The old man led the way with a candle in his hand; the rest followed,
clinging to each other like a flight of bees, not one of them daring
to be left behind; and the groom, who had really seen a light from
the tower inhabited by the prisoner, was to convinced he had seen a
ghost, that neither father Anselm, nor all the fathers in Christendom,
could have persuaded him to think the contrary; and so much had it
alarmed him, that his terrified imagination had mistake his own shadow
for the ghost following close at his heels, and it was with some
difficulty he could be prevailed upon by his fellow-servants to go
to bed, lest he should see it again.

The next morning, when Audrey went to call her young lady, Roseline
requested she would forgive her for having spoken so angrily the
preceding evening, and with the most winning softness begged to be
informed what she meant by coupling her name with that of the Baron.

Audrey, who had never before seen Roseline so much out of humour,
and had neither forgotten nor forgiven the affront of being prevented
from disclosing a secret which she had for several days found very
troublesome to keep, replied, "I couples no one; matches are made
in heaven, or in the church, or at wakes; but I think, for my part,
some are made in a much worser place, and so she will think too who
is tacked in hollybands with the old Baron." "But who do you think,
my good Audrey, will ever be so unfortunate?" "Why will you ax me
miss? I must not speak my senterments: we poor servants never knows
nothing; but this I do know for certain, if ever I marries, it shall
be to a young man, a pretty-looking man,--good humoured ones I
loves,--something like Mr. Camelfor;--not to an old crab, sowrer
than vinegar, who would not suffer me to see with my own dear eyes,
nor believe with my own natural senses,--a crotched paced toad, who
would shut me up for life; mayhap, if I liked a better or a younger
man than himself,--an accident I think that might happen."

"But how should the Baron find out what you thought?"

"By going to a negromancer. Such old cattle are to the full as cunning
as their black master, and might strike one dumb."

"That, to be sure, (replied Roseline,) would be a heavy misfortune
to those who were fond of hearing the sound of their own voice in
preference to that of any other person."

"For my part, (said Audrey,) voice or no voice, I verily thinks
something mendusly bad after all will happen to this crazy castle,
for Thomas last night saw lights in the South tower, and the ghost
of a young woman followed him in such a hurry, that, if he had not ran
as fast as a hound, it would have stamped upon his heels. It went away
like a sky-rocket, and the smell of sulphur almost _sifficated_ the
poor fellow, who will certainly have a _parletic_ stroke."

Lady de Morney's bell now ringing, Audrey left the room, without
having said half so much as she intended to do about the ghost, or
unburthening her mind of a secret she heartily wished to reveal.




CHAP. IX.


When the family met at breakfast, the Baron appeared unusually affable,
and Sir Philip in high spirits. A walk was proposed to take a view
of the town, nunnery, and environs of the cattle. Roseline and her
sisters were requested to be of the party, and they were very soon
joined by De Clavering, De Willows, and Hugh Camelford. This little
promenade was so pleasant, that it seemed to harmonize every mind,
and to produce a redoubled and grateful relish for the early beauties
of the infant spring.

  "Already now the snow-drop dar'd appear,
   The first pale blossom of th'unripened year,
   As Flora's breath, by some transforming pow'r,
   Had chang'd an icicle into a flow'r.
   Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,
   And Winter lingers in its icy veins."

The Baron, who had politely offered the assistance of his arm to
Roseline, (which her father bade her accept,) whispered some very
fine things in her ear in praise of her shape, beauty, and
understanding,--told her it was a reproach on the taste and judgment
of his sex that so charming a female had not put on hymeneal
fetters;--it was a positive proof of the blindness of the god of love.

"Surely you forget, my lord, (replied the blushing Roseline,) that
I have scarcely left off my leading strings, and am but just liberated
from the confinement of the school."

Age, he told her, ought not to be reckoned by the number of years,
but by accomplishments and good qualities.

"That kind of calculation (said De Clavering) would make your age,
Miss de Morney, more upon a par with the Baron's."

"More upon a par, you mean, (added De Willows,) with our first
parent Adam."

"What Atam? (cried Hugh Camelford, skipping to the side of Roseline,
and eagerly handing her over a little run of water they were obliged
to cross,)--what were you saying about our crate crandfather Atam?
I have often wished to see the old poy, and trink a pottle of pure
water with him from the pond in the carten of Eden."

"Why so, sir?" said the stately and mortified Baron, who felt and
seemed to shrink from the contrast between the active and lively
gallantry of the giddy Cambrian and the slow and cautious efforts
of his own.

"Why?--why? pecause he must be a prave fellow to venture matrimony
with the first woman he saw."

"How the devil should he do otherwise than take the first, when there
was no other to choose!" said De Clavering.

"The tevil however was even with him after all, (replied the
unthinking Camelford;)--the old poy had petter have peen quiet."

"I do not see that, (said De Willows;) and, as the mischief was
productive of some good, surely we have no right to criticise with
severity that conduct which was forgiven by Being so much more
perfect than the creature he had created."

"That is as much as to say, (rejoined Camelford,) that, when we
choose to play the fool, cofet our neighbor's wife or taughter, we
have only to plame our own imperfect nature, repent, and be forcifen."

"That would be to trust our hopes of forgiveness upon a very sandy
foundation indeed, (said Sir Philip,) as determined guilt, or a
continuance in error, can have but little chance of immortal
happiness."

"And for our mortal share of that same commodity, (replied the lively
Hugh,) we must not trust to matrimony, I fear, as I never heard married
people found their happiness puilt upon a rock."

This speech produced a general laugh, but Sir Philip, who was by
no means pleased with the subject, said with a smile to the Baron,
"These young men think they know more than their forefathers."

"By which means, (replied he,) they will most assuredly entail upon
themselves the mortification of knowing less."

The conversation, during the rest of the walk, was confined to such
objects as occasionally presented themselves to observation. The
inhabitants of the town came to their doors to catch a look at the
party from the castle. To as many as were known by the governor he
spoke familiarly, as did the other gentlemen, and they concluded the
Baron must be some very great man, perhaps the king himself in
disguise, because he did not once condescend to address them.

Roseline chatted with some young girls who came out to make their
best curtesies, while the Baron thought all these attentions paid
to such plebeian souls wonderfully troublesome. At dinner he scarcely
spoke five words, and De Willows was do disgusted with his forbidding
haughtiness, that the next day he presented to De Clavering the
following satire on pride, saying it was a tribute justly due to the
Baron for his supreme excellency in the display of that detestable
feature in his character.


    Hell's first born exhalation sure is pride!
    Who, with its sister, envy, would divide
    The various blessings to poor mortals given.
    By the kind bounty of indulgent heaven.
    What at the last have kings to make them proud!
    A gilded coffin and a satin shroud.
    The lordly worm on these will quickly prey;
    For worms, like kings, in turn will have their day.
    What then is man who boasts his form and make?
    A reptile's meal,--a worm's high-flavour'd steak,
    The epicure, who caters like a slave,
    Is but a pamper'd morsel for the grave.

    Envy's a canker of such subtle power,
    It steals all pleasure from the gayest hour.
    It is the deadly nightshade of the mind;
    With secret poison all its arts refin'd;
    And, when attended by it vile relation,
    Would spread a plague destructive to a nation.
    Then send these hags back to their native hell,
    With fiends and evil spirits formed to dwell.

    No more on worth let man look down with scorn,
    And frown on those not quite so highly born;
    Nor, as the coaches rattle from his door,
    Boast, like proud Haman, of not being poor!
    Earth's doom'd to earth, all folly there must end,--
    Then read, and own the satirist a friend.


Madeline had been invited, and obtained permission of the abbess to
spend the following day at the castle. This gave additional vivacity
to the lively spirits of Edwin, who, with his sister, spent as much
time with the prisoner as they could steal, without exciting curiosity
of suspicion. Roseline gave them with some humour the ghost-story,
as imparted to her by Audrey, and cautioned Albert against having any
lights seen from the windows, lest it should be productive of such
inquiries as might lead to a discovery of the rooms being inhabited;
but, notwithstanding all her attempts to fly from herself, and conceal
from the observing eye of love her own internal conflicts, she was
almost tempted to throw aside the mask, and at once confess all
her apprehensio

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37533