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The Old English Baron: a Gothic Story

by Clara Reeve · English · Gutenberg #5182 · 323,351 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Old English Baron: a Gothic Story

Author: Clara Reeve


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #5182]
                Most recently updated: November 19, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5182

Credits: Produced by Jack Voller, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD ENGLISH BARON: A GOTHIC STORY ***




Produced by Jack Voller








THE OLD ENGLISH BARON


By Clara Reeve




PREFACE



As this Story is of a species which, though not new, is out of
the common track, it has been thought necessary to point out some
circumstances to the reader, which will elucidate the design, and, it is
hoped, will induce him to form a favourable, as well as a right judgment
of the work before him.

This Story is the literary offspring of The Castle of Otranto, written
upon the same plan, with a design to unite the most attractive and
interesting circumstances of the ancient Romance and modern Novel, at
the same time it assumes a character and manner of its own, that differs
from both; it is distinguished by the appellation of a Gothic Story,
being a picture of Gothic times and manners. Fictitious stories have
been the delight of all times and all countries, by oral tradition in
barbarous, by writing in more civilized ones; and although some persons
of wit and learning have condemned them indiscriminately, I would
venture to affirm, that even those who so much affect to despise them
under one form, will receive and embrace them under another.

Thus, for instance, a man shall admire and almost adore the Epic poems
of the Ancients, and yet despise and execrate the ancient Romances,
which are only Epics in prose.

History represents human nature as it is in real life, alas, too often
a melancholy retrospect! Romance displays only the amiable side of the
picture; it shews the pleasing features, and throws a veil over the
blemishes: Mankind are naturally pleased with what gratifies their
vanity; and vanity, like all other passions of the human heart, may be
rendered subservient to good and useful purposes.

I confess that it may be abused, and become an instrument to corrupt the
manners and morals of mankind; so may poetry, so may plays, so may
every kind of composition; but that will prove nothing more than the
old saying lately revived by the philosophers the most in fashion, “that
every earthly thing has two handles.”

The business of Romance is, first, to excite the attention; and
secondly, to direct it to some useful, or at least innocent, end: Happy
the writer who attains both these points, like Richardson! and not
unfortunate, or undeserving praise, he who gains only the latter, and
furnishes out an entertainment for the reader!

Having, in some degree, opened my design, I beg leave to conduct my
reader back again, till he comes within view of The Castle of Otranto;
a work which, as already has been observed, is an attempt to unite the
various merits and graces of the ancient Romance and modern Novel.
To attain this end, there is required a sufficient degree of the
marvellous, to excite the attention; enough of the manners of real life,
to give an air of probability to the work; and enough of the pathetic,
to engage the heart in its behalf.

The book we have mentioned is excellent in the two last points, but
has a redundancy in the first; the opening excites the attention
very strongly; the conduct of the story is artful and judicious; the
characters are admirably drawn and supported; the diction polished and
elegant; yet, with all these brilliant advantages, it palls upon the
mind (though it does not upon the ear); and the reason is obvious, the
machinery is so violent, that it destroys the effect it is intended to
excite. Had the story been kept within the utmost verge of probability,
the effect had been preserved, without losing the least circumstance
that excites or detains the attention.

For instance; we can conceive, and allow of, the appearance of a ghost;
we can even dispense with an enchanted sword and helmet; but then they
must keep within certain limits of credibility: A sword so large as
to require an hundred men to lift it; a helmet that by its own weight
forces a passage through a court-yard into an arched vault, big enough
for a man to go through; a picture that walks out of its frame; a
skeleton ghost in a hermit’s cowl:--When your expectation is wound up
to the highest pitch, these circumstances take it down with a witness,
destroy the work of imagination, and, instead of attention, excite
laughter. I was both surprised and vexed to find the enchantment
dissolved, which I wished might continue to the end of the book; and
several of its readers have confessed the same disappointment to me: The
beauties are so numerous, that we cannot bear the defects, but want it
to be perfect in all respects.

In the course of my observations upon this singular book, it seemed to
me that it was possible to compose a work upon the same plan, wherein
these defects might be avoided; and the keeping, as in painting, might
be preserved.

But then I began to fear it might happen to me as to certain
translators, and imitators of Shakespeare; the unities may be preserved,
while the spirit is evaporated. However, I ventured to attempt it; I
read the beginning to a circle of friends of approved judgment, and by
their approbation was encouraged to proceed, and to finish it.





THE OLD ENGLISH BARON: A GOTHIC STORY.


In the minority of Henry the Sixth, King of England, when the renowned
John, Duke of Bedford was Regent of France, and Humphrey, the good Duke
of Gloucester, was Protector of England, a worthy knight, called
Sir Philip Harclay, returned from his travels to England, his native
country. He had served under the glorious King Henry the Fifth with
distinguished valour, had acquired an honourable fame, and was no less
esteemed for Christian virtues than for deeds of chivalry. After the
death of his prince, he entered into the service of the Greek emperor,
and distinguished his courage against the encroachments of the Saracens.
In a battle there, he took prisoner a certain gentleman, by name M.
Zadisky, of Greek extraction, but brought up by a Saracen officer; this
man he converted to the Christian faith; after which he bound him to
himself by the ties of friendship and gratitude, and he resolved to
continue with his benefactor. After thirty years travel and warlike
service, he determined to return to his native land, and to spend the
remainder of his life in peace; and, by devoting himself to works of
piety and charity, prepare for a better state hereafter.

This noble knight had, in his early youth, contracted a strict
friendship with the only son of the Lord Lovel, a gentleman of eminent
virtues and accomplishments. During Sir Philip’s residence in foreign
countries, he had frequently written to his friend, and had for a time
received answers; the last informed him of the death of old Lord Lovel,
and the marriage of the young one; but from that time he had heard no
more from him. Sir Philip imputed it not to neglect or forgetfulness,
but to the difficulties of intercourse, common at that time to all
travellers and adventurers. When he was returning home, he resolved,
after looking into his family affairs, to visit the Castle of Lovel, and
enquire into the situation of his friend. He landed in Kent, attended by
his Greek friend and two faithful servants, one of which was maimed by
the wounds he had received in the defence of his master.

Sir Philip went to his family seat in Yorkshire. He found his mother
and sister were dead, and his estates sequestered in the hands of
commissioners appointed by the Protector. He was obliged to prove the
reality of his claim, and the identity of his person (by the testimony
of some of the old servants of his family), after which every thing was
restored to him. He took possession of his own house, established his
household, settled the old servants in their former stations, and placed
those he brought home in the upper offices of his family. He then left
his friend to superintend his domestic affairs; and, attended by only
one of his old servants, he set out for the Castle of Lovel, in the west
of England. They travelled by easy journeys; but, towards the evening
of the second day, the servant was so ill and fatigued he could go no
further; he stopped at an inn where he grew worse every hour, and the
next day expired. Sir Philip was under great concern for the loss of his
servant, and some for himself, being alone in a strange place; however
he took courage, ordered his servant’s funeral, attended it himself,
and, having shed a tear of humanity over his grave, proceeded alone on
his journey.

As he drew near the estate of his friend, he began to enquire of every
one he met, whether the Lord Lovel resided at the seat of his ancestors?
He was answered by one, he did not know; by another, he could not tell;
by a third, that he never heard of such a person. Sir Philip thought it
strange that a man of Lord Lovel’s consequence should be unknown in
his own neighbourhood, and where his ancestors had usually resided. He
ruminated on the uncertainty of human happiness. “This world,” said
he, “has nothing for a wise man to depend upon. I have lost all my
relations, and most of my friends; and am even uncertain whether any
are remaining. I will, however, be thankful for the blessings that are
spared to me; and I will endeavour to replace those that I have lost. If
my friend lives, he shall share my fortune with me; his children shall
have the reversion of it; and I will share his comforts in return.
But perhaps my friend may have met with troubles that have made him
disgusted with the world; perhaps he has buried his amiable wife, or
his promising children; and, tired of public life, he is retired into a
monastery. At least, I will know what all this silence means.”

When he came within a mile of the Castle of Lovel, he stopped at a
cottage and asked for a draught of water; a peasant, master of the
house, brought it, and asked if his honour would alight and take a
moment’s refreshment. Sir Philip accepted his offer, being resolved to
make farther enquiry before he approached the castle. He asked the same
questions of him, that he had before of others.

“Which Lord Lovel,” said the man, “does your honour enquire after?”

“The man whom I knew was called Arthur,” said Sir Philip.

“Ay,” said the Peasant, “he was the only surviving son of Richard, Lord
Lovel, as I think?”

“Very true, friend, he was so.”

“Alas, sir,” said the man, “he is dead! he survived his father but a
short time.”

“Dead! say you? how long since?”

“About fifteen years, to the best of my remembrance.”

Sir Philip sighed deeply.

“Alas!” said he, “what do we, by living long, but survive all our
friends! But pray tell me how he died?”

“I will, sir, to the best of my knowledge. An’t please your honour,
I heard say, that he attended the King when he went against the Welch
rebels, and he left his lady big with child; and so there was a battle
fought, and the king got the better of the rebels. There came first a
report that none of the officers were killed; but a few days after
there came a messenger with an account very different, that several were
wounded, and that the Lord Lovel was slain; which sad news overset us
all with sorrow, for he was a noble gentleman, a bountiful master, and
the delight of all the neighbourhood.”

“He was indeed,” said Sir Philip, “all that is amiable and good; he was
my dear and noble friend, and I am inconsolable for his loss. But the
unfortunate lady, what became of her?”

“Why, a’nt please your honour, they said she died of grief for the loss
of her husband; but her death was kept private for a time, and we did
not know it for certain till some weeks afterwards.”

“The will of Heaven be obeyed!” said Sir Philip; “but who succeeded to
the title and estate?”

“The next heir,” said the peasant, “a kinsman of the deceased, Sir
Walter Lovel by name.”

“I have seen him,” said Sir Philip, “formerly; but where was he when
these events happened?”

“At the Castle of Lovel, sir; he came there on a visit to the lady, and
waited there to receive my Lord, at his return from Wales; when the news
of his death arrived, Sir Walter did every thing in his power to comfort
her, and some said he was to marry her; but she refused to be comforted,
and took it so to heart that she died.”

“And does the present Lord Lovel reside at the castle?”

“No, sir.”

“Who then?”

“The Lord Baron Fitz-Owen.”

“And how came Sir Walter to leave the seat of his ancestors?”

“Why, sir, he married his sister to this said Lord; and so he sold the
Castle to him, and went away, and built himself a house in the north
country, as far as Northumberland, I think they call it.”

“That is very strange!” said Sir Philip.

“So it is, please your honour; but this is all I know about it.”

“I thank you, friend, for your intelligence; I have taken a long journey
to no purpose, and have met with nothing but cross accidents. This life
is, indeed, a pilgrimage! Pray direct me the nearest way to the next
monastery.”

“Noble sir,” said the peasant, “it is full five miles off, the night
is coming on, and the ways are bad; I am but a poor man, and cannot
entertain your honour as you are used to; but if you will enter my poor
cottage, that, and every thing in it, are at your service.”

“My honest friend, I thank you heartily,” said Sir Philip; “your
kindness and hospitality might shame many of higher birth and breeding;
I will accept your kind offer;--but pray let me know the name of my
host?”

“John Wyatt, sir; an honest man though a poor one, and a Christian man,
though a sinful one.”

“Whose cottage is this?”

“It belongs to the Lord Fitz-Owen.”

“What family have you?”

“A wife, two sons and a daughter, who will all be proud to wait upon
your honour; let me hold your honour’s stirrup whilst you alight.”

He seconded these words by the proper action, and having assisted his
guest to dismount, he conducted him into his house, called his wife to
attend him, and then led his horse under a poor shed, that served him
as a stable. Sir Philip was fatigued in body and mind, and was glad to
repose himself anywhere. The courtesy of his host engaged his attention,
and satisfied his wishes. He soon after returned, followed by a youth of
about eighteen years.

“Make haste, John,” said the father, “and be sure you say neither more
nor less than what I have told you.”

“I will, father,” said the lad; and immediately set off, ran like a buck
across the fields, and was out of sight in an instant.

“I hope, friend,” said Sir Philip, “you have not sent your son to
provide for my entertainment; I am a soldier, used to lodge and fare
hard; and, if it were otherwise, your courtesy and kindness would give a
relish to the most ordinary food.”

“I wish heartily,” said Wyatt, “it was in my power to entertain your
honour as you ought to be; but, as I cannot do so, I will, when my son
returns, acquaint you with the errand I sent him on.”

After this they conversed together on common subjects, like
fellow-creatures of the same natural form and endowments, though
different kinds of education had given a conscious superiority to the
one, a conscious inferiority to the other; and the due respect was paid
by the latter, without being exacted by the former. In about half an
hour young John returned.

“Thou hast made haste,” said the father.

“Not more than good speed,” quoth the son.

“Tell us, then, how you speed?”

“Shall I tell all that passed?” said John.

“All,” said the father; “I don’t want to hide any thing.”

 John stood with his cap in his hand, and thus told his tale--

“I went straight to the castle as fast as I could run; it was my hap to
light on young Master Edmund first, so I told him just as you had me,
that a noble gentleman was come a long journey from foreign parts to see
the Lord Lovel, his friend; and, having lived abroad many years, he did
not know that he was dead, and that the castle was fallen into
other hands; that upon hearing these tidings he was much grieved and
disappointed, and wanting a night’s lodging, to rest himself before
he returned to his own home, he was fain to take up with one at our
cottage; that my father thought my Lord would be angry with him, if he
were not told of the stranger’s journey and intentions, especially to
let such a man lie at our cottage, where he could neither be lodged nor
entertained according to his quality.”

Here John stopped, and his father exclaimed--

“A good lad! you did your errand very well; and tell us the answer.”

John proceeded--

“Master Edmund ordered me some beer, and went to acquaint my Lord of the
message; he stayed a while, and then came back to me.--‘John,’ said he,
‘tell the noble stranger that the Baron Fitz-Owen greets him well, and
desires him to rest assured, that though Lord Lovel is dead, and the
castle fallen into other hands, his friends will always find a welcome
there; and my lord desires that he will accept of a lodging there, while
he remains in this country.’--So I came away directly, and made haste to
deliver my errand.”

Sir Philip expressed some dissatisfaction at this mark of old Wyatt’s
respect.

“I wish,” said he, “that you had acquainted me with your intention
before you sent to inform the Baron I was here. I choose rather to lodge
with you; and I propose to make amends for the trouble I shall give
you.”

“Pray, sir, don’t mention it,” said the peasant, “you are as welcome as
myself; I hope no offence; the only reason of my sending was, because I
am both unable and unworthy to entertain your honour.”

“I am sorry,” said Sir Philip, “you should think me so dainty; I am
a Christian soldier; and him I acknowledge for my Prince and Master,
accepted the invitations of the poor, and washed the feet of his
disciples. Let us say no more on this head; I am resolved to stay this
night in your cottage, tomorrow I will wait on the Baron, and thank him
for his hospitable invitation.”

“That shall be as your honour pleases, since you will condescend to stay
here. John, do you run back and acquaint my Lord of it.”

“Not so,” said Sir Philip; “it is now almost dark.”

“‘Tis no matter,” said John, “I can go it blindfold.”

Sir Philip then gave him a message to the Baron in his own name,
acquainting him that he would pay his respects to him in the morning.
John flew back the second time, and soon returned with new commendations
from the Baron, and that he would expect him on the morrow. Sir Philip
gave him an angel of gold, and praised his speed and abilities.

He supped with Wyatt and his family upon new-laid eggs and rashers of
bacon, with the highest relish. They praised the Creator for His gifts,
and acknowledged they were unworthy of the least of His blessings.
They gave the best of their two lofts up to Sir Philip, the rest of the
family slept in the other, the old woman and her daughter in the bed,
the father and his two sons upon clean straw. Sir Philip’s bed was of
a better kind, and yet much inferior to his usual accommodations;
nevertheless the good knight slept as well in Wyatt’s cottage, as he
could have done in a palace.

During his sleep, many strange and incoherent dreams arose to his
imagination. He thought he received a message from his friend Lord
Lovel, to come to him at the castle; that he stood at the gate and
received him, that he strove to embrace him, but could not; but that he
spoke to this effect:--“Though I have been dead these fifteen years,
I still command here, and none can enter these gates without my
permission; know that it is I that invite, and bid you welcome; the
hopes of my house rest upon you.” Upon this he bid Sir Philip follow
him; he led him through many rooms, till at last he sunk down, and
Sir Philip thought he still followed him, till he came into a dark
and frightful cave, where he disappeared, and in his stead he beheld
a complete suit of armour stained with blood, which belonged to his
friend, and he thought he heard dismal groans from beneath. Presently
after, he thought he was hurried away by an invisible hand, and led into
a wild heath, where the people were inclosing the ground, and making
preparations for two combatants; the trumpet sounded, and a voice called
out still louder, “Forbear! It is not permitted to be revealed till
the time is ripe for the event; wait with patience on the decrees of
heaven.” He was then transported to his own house, where, going into an
unfrequented room, he was again met by his friend, who was living, and
in all the bloom of youth, as when he first knew him: He started at the
sight, and awoke. The sun shone upon his curtains, and, perceiving
it was day, he sat up, and recollected where he was. The images that
impressed his sleeping fancy remained strongly on his mind waking; but
his reason strove to disperse them; it was natural that the story he
had heard should create these ideas, that they should wait on him in his
sleep, and that every dream should bear some relation to his deceased
friend. The sun dazzled his eyes, the birds serenaded him and diverted
his attention, and a woodbine forced its way through the window, and
regaled his sense of smelling with its fragrance. He arose, paid his
devotions to Heaven, and then carefully descended the narrow stairs, and
went out at the door of the cottage. There he saw the industrious wife
and daughter of old Wyatt at their morning work, the one milking her
cow, the other feeding her poultry. He asked for a draught of milk,
which, with a slice of rye bread, served to break his fast. He walked
about the fields alone; for old Wyatt and his two sons were gone out to
their daily labour. He was soon called back by the good woman, who told
him that a servant from the Baron waited to conduct him to the Castle.
He took leave of Wyatt’s wife, telling her he would see her again before
he left the country. The daughter fetched his horse, which he mounted,
and set forward with the servant, of whom he asked many questions
concerning his master’s family.

“How long have you lived with the Baron?”

“Ten years.”

“Is he a good master?”

“Yes, Sir, and also a good husband and father.”

“What family has he?”

“Three sons and a daughter.”

“What age are they of?”

“The eldest son is in his seventeenth year, the second in his sixteenth,
the others several years younger; but beside these my Lord has several
young gentlemen brought up with his own sons, two of which are his
nephews; he keeps in his house a learned clerk to teach them languages;
and as for all bodily exercises, none come near them; there is a
fletcher to teach them the use of the cross-bow; a master to teach them
to ride; another the use of the sword; another learns them to dance; and
then they wrestle and run, and have such activity in all their motions,
that it does one good to see them; and my Lord thinks nothing too much
to bestow on their education.”

“Truly,” says Sir Philip, “he does the part of a good parent, and I
honour him greatly for it; but are the young gentlemen of a promising
disposition?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” answered the servant; “the young gentlemen, my Lord’s
sons, are hopeful youths; but yet there is one who is thought to exceed
them all, though he is the son of a poor labourer.”

“And who is he?” said the knight.

“One Edmund Twyford, the son of a cottager in our village; he is to
be sure as fine a youth as ever the sun shone upon, and of so sweet a
disposition that nobody envies his good fortune.”

“What good fortune does he enjoy?”

“Why, Sir, about two years ago, my lord, at his sons request, took
him into his own family, and gives him the same education as his own
children; the young lords doat upon him, especially Master William, who
is about his own age: It is supposed that he will attend the young Lords
when they go to the wars, which my Lord intends they shall by and by.”

“What you tell me,” said Sir Philip, “increases every minute my respect
for your Lord; he is an excellent father and master, he seeks out merit
in obscurity; he distinguishes and rewards it,--I honour him with all my
heart.”

In this manner they conversed together till they came within view of
the castle. In a field near the house they saw a company of youths, with
crossbows in their hands, shooting at a mark.

“There,” said the servant, “are our young gentlemen at their exercises.”

Sir Philip stopped his horse to observe them; he heard two or three of
them cry out, “Edmund is the victor! He wins the prize!”

“I must,” said Sir Philip, “take a view of this Edmund.”

He jumped off his horse, gave the bridle to the servant, and walked into
the field. The young gentlemen came up, and paid their respects to him;
he apologized for intruding upon their sports, and asked which was
the victor? Upon which the youth he spoke to beckoned to another, who
immediately advanced, and made his obeisance; As he drew near, Sir
Philip fixed his eyes upon him, with so much attention, that he seemed
not to observe his courtesy and address. At length he recollected
himself, and said, “What is your name, young man?”

“Edmund Twyford,” replied the youth; “and I have the honour to attend
upon the Lord Fitz-Owen’s sons.”

“Pray, noble sir,” said the youth who first addressed Sir Philip, “are
not you the stranger who is expected by my father?”

“I am, sir,” answered he, “and I go to pay my respects to him.”

“Will you excuse our attendance, Sir? We have not yet finished our
exercises.”

“My dear youth,” said Sir Philip, “no apology is necessary; but will you
favour me with your proper name, that I may know to whose courtesy I am
obliged?”

“My name is William Fitz-Owen; that gentleman is my eldest brother,
Master Robert; that other my kinsman, Master Richard Wenlock.”

“Very well; I thank you, gentle Sir; I beg you not to stir another step,
your servant holds my horse.”

“Farewell, Sir,” said Master William; “I hope we shall have the pleasure
of meeting you at dinner.”

The youths returned to their sports, and Sir Philip mounted his horse
and proceeded to the castle; he entered it with a deep sigh, and
melancholy recollections. The Baron received him with the utmost respect
and courtesy. He gave a brief account of the principal events that had
happened in the family of Lovel during his absence; he spoke of the late
Lord Lovel with respect, of the present with the affection of a brother.
Sir Philip, in return, gave a brief recital of his own adventures
abroad, and of the disagreeable circumstances he had met with since his
return home; he pathetically lamented the loss of all his friends, not
forgetting that of his faithful servant on the way; saying he could be
contented to give up the world, and retire to a religious house, but
that he was withheld by the consideration, that some who depended
entirely upon him, would want his presence and assistance; and, beside
that, he thought he might be of service to many others. The Baron agreed
with him in opinion, that a man was of much more service to the world
who continued in it, than one who retired from it, and gave his fortune
to the Church, whose servants did not always make the best use of it.
Sir Philip then turned the conversation, and congratulated the Baron
on his hopeful family; he praised their persons and address, and warmly
applauded the care he bestowed on their education. The Baron listened
with pleasure to the honest approbation of a worthy heart, and enjoyed
the true happiness of a parent.

Sir Philip then made further enquiry concerning Edmund, whose appearance
had struck him with an impression in his favour.

“That boy,” said the Baron, “is the son of a cottager in this
neighbourhood; his uncommon merit, and gentleness of manners,
distinguish him from those of his own class; from his childhood he
attracted the notice and affection of all that knew him; he was beloved
everywhere but at his father’s house, and there it should seem that his
merits were his crimes; for the peasant, his father, hated him, treated
him severely, and at length threatened to turn him out of doors; he
used to run here and there on errands for my people, and at length they
obliged me to take notice of him; my sons earnestly desired I would take
him into my family; I did so about two years ago, intending to make him
their servant; but his extraordinary genius and disposition have obliged
me to look upon him in a superior light; perhaps I may incur the censure
of many people, by giving him so many advantages, and treating him
as the companion of my children; his merit must justify or condemn my
partiality for him; however, I trust that I have secured to my children
a faithful servant of the upper kind, and a useful friend to my family.”

Sir Philip warmly applauded his generous host, and wished to be a sharer
in his bounty to that fine youth, whose appearance indicated all the
qualities that had endeared him to his companions.

At the hour of dinner the young men presented themselves before their
Lord, and his guest. Sir Philip addressed himself to Edmund; he asked
him many questions, and received modest and intelligent answers, and
he grew every minute more pleased with him. After dinner the youths
withdrew with their tutor to pursue their studies. Sir Philip sat for
some time wrapt up in meditation. After some minutes, the Baron
asked him, “If he might not be favoured with the fruits of his
contemplations?”

“You shall, my Lord,” answered he, “for you have a right to them. I was
thinking, that when many blessings are lost, we should cherish those
that remain, and even endeavour to replace the others. My Lord, I have
taken a strong liking to that youth whom you call Edmund Twyford; I
have neither children nor relations to claim my fortune, nor share my
affections; your Lordship has many demands upon your generosity: I can
provide for this promising youth without doing injustice to any one;
will you give him to me?”

“He is a fortunate boy,” said the Baron, “to gain your favour so soon.”

“My Lord,” said the knight, “I will confess to you, that the first thing
that touched my heart in his favour, is a strong resemblance he bears to
a certain dear friend I once had, and his manner resembles him as much
as his person; his qualities deserve that he should be placed in a
higher rank; I will adopt him for my son, and introduce him into the
world as my relation, if you will resign him to me; What say you?”

“Sir,” said the Baron, “you have made a noble offer, and I am too much
the young man’s friend to be a hindrance to his preferment. It is true
that I intended to provide for him in my own family; but I cannot do it
so effectually as by giving him to you, whose generous affection being
unlimited by other ties, may in time prefer him to a higher station as
he shall deserve it. I have only one condition to make; that the lad
shall have his option; for I would not oblige him to leave my service
against his inclination.”

“You say well,” replied Sir Philip; “nor would I take him upon other
terms.”

“Agreed then,” said the Baron; “let us send for Edmund hither.”

A servant was sent to fetch him; he came immediately, and his Lord
thus bespoke him.

“Edmund, you owe eternal obligations to this gentleman, who, perceiving
in you a certain resemblance to a friend of his, and liking your
behaviour, has taken a great affection for you, insomuch that he desires
to receive you into his family: I cannot better provide for you than by
disposing of you to him; and, if you have no objection, you shall return
home with him when he goes from hence.”

The countenance of Edmund underwent many alterations during this
proposal of his Lord; it expressed tenderness, gratitude, and sorrow,
but the last was predominant; he bowed respectfully to the Baron and Sir
Philip, and, after some hesitation, spoke as follows:--

“I feel very strongly the obligations I owe to this gentleman, for
his noble and generous offer; I cannot express the sense I have of his
goodness to me, a peasant boy, only known to him by my Lord’s kind and
partial mention; this uncommon bounty claims my eternal gratitude. To
you, my honoured Lord, I owe every thing, even this gentleman’s good
opinion; you distinguished me when nobody else did; and, next to you,
your sons are my best and dearest benefactors; they introduced me to
your notice. My heart is unalterably attached to this house and family,
and my utmost ambition is to spend my life in your service; but if you
have perceived any great and grievous faults in me, that make you wish
to put me out of your family, and if you have recommended me to this
gentleman in order to be rid of me, in that case I will submit to your
pleasure, as I would if you should sentence me to death.”

During this speech the tears made themselves channels down Edmund’s
cheeks; and his two noble auditors, catching the tender inflection, wiped
their eyes at the conclusion.

“My dear child,” said the Baron, “you overcome me by your tenderness and
gratitude! I know of no faults you have committed, that I should wish to
be rid of you. I thought to do you the best service by promoting you to
that of Sir Philip Harclay, who is both able and willing to provide for
you; but if you prefer my service to his, I will not part with you.”

Upon this Edmund kneeled to the Baron; he embraced his knees. “My dear
Lord! I am, and will be your servant, in preference to any man living; I
only ask your permission to live and die in your service.”


“You see, Sir Philip,” said the Baron, “how this boy engages the heart;
how can I part with him?”

“I cannot ask you any more,” answered Sir Philip, “I see it is
impossible; but I esteem you both still higher than ever; the youth
for his gratitude, and your lordship for your noble mind and true
generosity; blessings attend you both!”

“Oh, sir,” said Edmund, pressing the hand of Sir Philip, “do not think
me ungrateful to you; I will ever remember your goodness, and pray to
Heaven to reward it: the name of Sir Philip Harclay shall be engraven
upon my heart, next to my Lord and his family, for ever.”

Sir Philip raised the youth and embraced him, saying, “If ever you want
a friend, remember me; and depend upon my protection, so long as you
continue to deserve it.”

Edmund bowed low, and withdrew, with his eyes full of tears of
sensibility and gratitude. When he was gone, Sir Philip said, “I am
thinking, that though young Edmund wants not my assistance at present,
he may hereafter stand in need of my friendship. I should not wonder
if such rare qualities as he possesses, should one day create envy,
and raise him enemies; in which case he might come to lose your favour,
without any fault of yours or his own.”

“I am obliged to you for the warning,” said the Baron, “I hope it will
be unnecessary; but if ever I part with Edmund, you shall have the
refusal of him.”

“I thank your Lordship for all your civilities to me,” said the knight;
“I leave my best wishes with you and your hopeful family, and I humbly
take my leave.”

“Will you not stay one night in the castle?” returned my Lord; “you
shall be as welcome a guest as ever.”

“I acknowledge your goodness and hospitality, but this house fills me
with melancholy recollections; I came hither with a heavy heart, and it
will not be lighter while I remain here. I shall always remember your
lordship with the highest respect and esteem; and I pray God to preserve
you, and increase your blessings!”

After some further ceremonies, Sir Philip departed, and returned to old
Wyatt’s, ruminating on the vicissitude of human affairs, and thinking on
the changes he had seen.

At his return to Wyatt’s cottage, he found the family assembled
together. He told them he would take another night’s lodging there,
which they heard with great pleasure;--for he had familiarised himself
to them in the last evening’s conversation, insomuch that they began to
enjoy his company. He told Wyatt of the misfortune he had sustained by
losing his servant on the way, and wished he could get one to attend
him home in his place. Young John looked earnestly at his father, who
returned a look of approbation.

“I perceive one in this company,” said he, “that would be proud to serve
your honour; but I fear he is not brought up well enough.”

John coloured with impatience; he could not forbear speaking.

“Sir, I can answer for an honest heart, a willing mind, and a light pair
of heels; and though I am somewhat awkward, I shall be proud to learn,
to please my noble master, if he will but try me.”

“You say well,” said Sir Philip, “I have observed your qualifications,
and if you are desirous to serve me, I am equally pleased with you; if
your father has no objection I will take you.”

“Objection, sir!” said the old man; “it will be my pride to prefer him
to such a noble gentleman; I will make no terms for him, but leave it to
your honour to do for him as he shall deserve.”

“Very well,” said Sir Philip, “you shall be no loser by that; I will
charge myself with the care of the young man.”

The bargain was struck, and Sir Philip purchased a horse for John of
the old man. The next morning they set out; the knight left marks of his
bounty with the good couple, and departed, laden with their blessing and
prayers. He stopped at the place where his faithful servant was buried,
and caused masses to be said for the repose of his soul; then, pursuing
his way by easy journeys, arrived in safety at home. His family rejoiced
at his return; he settled his new servant in attendance upon his person;
he then looked round his neighbourhood for objects of his charity; when
he saw merit in distress, it was his delight to raise and support it; he
spent his time in the service of his Creator, and glorified him in doing
good to his creatures. He reflected frequently upon every thing that had
befallen him in his late journey to the west; and, at his leisure, took
down all the particulars in writing.

*****

[Here follows an interval of four years, as by the manuscript; and this
omission seems intended by the writer. What follows is in a different
hand, and the character is more modern.]

*****


ABOUT this time the prognostics of Sir Philip Harclay began to be
verified, that Edmund’s good qualities might one day excite envy and
create him enemies. The sons and kinsmen of his patron began to seek
occasion to find fault with him, and to depreciate him with others. The
Baron’s eldest son and heir, Master Robert, had several contests with
Master William, the second son, upon his account: This youth had a warm
affection for Edmund, and whenever his brother and kinsmen treated him
slightly, he supported him against their malicious insinuations. Mr.
Richard Wenlock, and Mr. John Markham, were the sisters sons of the Lord
Fitz-Owen; and there were several other more distant relations, who,
with them, secretly envied Edmund’s fine qualities, and strove to lessen
him in the esteem of the Baron and his family. By degrees they excited
a dislike in Master Robert, that in time was fixed into habit, and fell
little short of aversion.


Young Wenlock’s hatred was confirmed by an additional circumstance: He
had a growing passion for the Lady Emma, the Baron’s only daughter;
and, as love is eagle-eyed, he saw, or fancied he saw her cast an eye of
preference on Edmund. An accidental service that she received from
him, had excited her grateful regards and attentions towards him. The
incessant view of his fine person and qualities, had perhaps improved
her esteem into a still softer sensation, though she was yet ignorant of
it, and thought it only the tribute due to gratitude and friendship.


One Christmas time, the Baron and all his family went to visit a family
in Wales; crossing a ford, the horse that carried the Lady Emma, who
rode behind her cousin Wenlock, stumbled and fell down, and threw her
off into the water: Edmund dismounted in a moment, and flew to her
assistance; he took her out so quick, that the accident was not known
to some part of the company. From this time Wenlock strove to undermine
Edmund in her esteem, and she conceived herself obliged in justice
and gratitude to defend him against the malicious insinuations of
his enemies. She one day asked Wenlock, why he in particular should
endeavour to recommend himself to her favour, by speaking against
Edmund, to whom she was under great obligations? He made but little
reply; but the impression sunk deep into his rancorous heart; every word
in Edmund’s behalf was like a poisoned arrow that rankled in the
wound, and grew every day more inflamed. Sometimes he would pretend to
extenuate Edmund’s supposed faults, in order to load him with the sin
of ingratitude upon other occasions. Rancour works deepest in the heart
that strives to conceal it; and, when covered by art, frequently puts on
the appearance of candour. By these means did Wenlock and Markham impose
upon the credulity of Master Robert and their other relations: Master
William only stood proof against all their insinuations.


The same autumn that Edmund completed his eighteenth year, the Baron
declared his intention of sending the young men of his house to France
the following spring, to learn the art of war, and signalize their
courage and abilities.

Their ill-will towards Edmund was so well concealed, that his patron
had not discovered it; but it was whispered among the servants, who are
generally close observers of the manners of their principals. Edmund
was a favourite with them all, which was a strong presumption that he
deserved to be so, for they seldom shew much regard to dependents, or
to superiour domestics, who are generally objects of envy and dislike.
Edmund was courteous, but not familiar with them; and, by this means,
gained their affections without soliciting them. Among them was an old
serving man, called Joseph Howel; this man had formerly served the old
Lord Lovel, and his son; and when the young Lord died, and Sir Walter
sold the castle to his brother-in-law, the Lord Fitz-Owen, he only of
all the old servants was left in the house, to take care of it, and to
deliver it into the possession of the new proprietor, who retained him
in his service: He was a man of few words, but much reflection: and,
without troubling himself about other people’s affairs, went silently
and properly about his own business; more solicitous to discharge his
duty, than to recommend himself to notice, and not seeming to aspire to
any higher office than that of a serving man. This old man would fix his
eyes upon Edmund, whenever he could do it without observation; sometimes
he would sigh deeply, and a tear would start from his eye, which he
strove to conceal from observation. One day Edmund surprised him in this
tender emotion, as he was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand:
“Why,” said he, “my good friend, do you look at me so earnestly and
affectionately?”

“Because I love you, Master Edmund,” said he; “because I wish you well.”

“I thank you kindly,” answered Edmund; “I am unable to repay your love,
otherwise than by returning it, which I do sincerely.”

“I thank you, sir,” said the old man; “that is all I desire, and more
than I deserve.”

“Do not say so,” said Edmund; “if I had any better way to thank you, I
would not say so much about it; but words are all my inheritance.”

Upon this he shook hands with Joseph, who withdrew hastily to conceal
his emotion, saying, “God bless you, master, and make your fortune
equal to your deserts! I cannot help thinking you were born to a higher
station than what you now hold.”

“You know to the contrary,” said Edmund; but Joseph was gone out of
sight and hearing.

The notice and observation of strangers, and the affection of
individuals, together with that inward consciousness that always attends
superiour qualities, would sometimes kindle the flames of ambition in
Edmund’s heart; but he checked them presently by reflecting upon his
low birth and dependant station. He was modest, yet intrepid; gentle and
courteous to all; frank and unreserved to those that loved him, discreet
and complaisant to those who hated him; generous and compassionate
to the distresses of his fellow-creatures in general; humble, but not
servile, to his patron and superiors. Once, when he with a manly spirit
justified himself against a malicious imputation, his young Lord,
Robert, taxed him with pride and arrogance to his kinsmen. Edmund denied
the charge against him with equal spirit and modesty. Master Robert
answered him sharply, “How dare you contradict my cousins? do you mean
to give them the lie?”

“Not in words, Sir,” said Edmund; “but I will behave so as that you
shall not believe them.”

Master Robert haughtily bid him be silent and know himself, and not
presume to contend with men so much his superiors in every respect.
These heart-burnings in some degree subsided by their preparations for
going to France. Master Robert was to be presented at court before his
departure, and it was expected that he should be knighted. The Baron
designed Edmund to be his esquire; but this was frustrated by his
old enemies, who persuaded Robert to make choice of one of his own
domestics, called Thomas Hewson; him did they set up as a rival to
Edmund, and he took every occasion to affront him. All that Master
Robert gained by this step was the contempt of those, who saw Edmund’s
merit, and thought it want of discernment in him not to distinguish
and reward it. Edmund requested of his Lord that he might be Master
William’s attendant; “and when,” said he, “my patron shall be knighted,
as I make no doubt he will one day be, he has promised that I shall be
his esquire.” The Baron granted Edmund’s request; and, being freed from
servitude to the rest, he was devoted to that of his beloved Master
William, who treated him in public as his principal domestic, but in
private as his chosen friend and brother.


The whole cabal of his enemies consulted together in what manner they
should vent their resentment against him; and it was agreed that they
should treat him with indifference and neglect, till they should arrive
in France; and when there, they should contrive to render his courage
suspected, and by putting him upon some desperate enterprize, rid
themselves of him for ever. About this time died the great Duke of
Bedford, to the irreparable loss of the English nation. He was succeeded
by Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, as Regent of France, of which
great part had revolted to Charles the Dauphin. Frequent actions ensued.
Cities were lost and won; and continual occasions offered to exercise
the courage, and abilities, of the youths of both nations.

The young men of Baron Fitz-Owen’s house were recommended particularly
to the Regent’s notice. Master Robert was knighted, with several other
young men of family, who distinguished themselves by their spirit and
activity upon every occasion. The youth were daily employed in warlike
exercises, and frequent actions; and made their first essay in arms in
such a manner as to bring into notice all that deserved it. Various a
 but all their contrivances recoiled upon themselves, and brought
increase of honour upon Edmund’s head; he distinguished himself upon
so many occasions, that Sir Robert himself began to pay him more than
ordinary regard, to the infinite mortification of his kinsmen and
relations. They laid many schemes against him, but none took effect.

[From this place the characters in the manuscript are effaced by time
and damp. Here and there some sentences are legible, but not sufficient
to pursue the thread of the story. Mention is made of several actions in
which the young men were engaged--that Edmund distinguished himself
by intrepidity in action; by gentleness, humanity and modesty in the
cessations--that he attracted the notice of every person of observation,
and also that he received personal commendation from the Regent.]

*****

[The following incidents are clear enough to be transcribed; but the
beginning of the next succeeding pages is obliterated. However, we may
guess at the beginning by what remains.]

*****

As soon as the cabal met in Sir Robert’s tent, Mr. Wenlock thus
began:--“You see, my friends, that every attempt we make to humble this
upstart, turns into applause, and serves only to raise his pride still
higher. Something must be done, or his praise will go home before us,
at our own expence; and we shall seem only soils to set off his glories.
Any thing would I give to the man who should execute our vengeance upon
him.”

“Stop there, cousin Wenlock,” said Sir Robert; “though I think Edmund
proud and vain-glorious, and would join in any scheme to humble him,
and make him know himself, I will not suffer any man to use such base
methods to effect it. Edmund is brave; and it is beneath an Englishman
to revenge himself by unworthy means; if any such are used, I will be
the first man to bring the guilty to justice; and if I hear another word
to this purpose, I will inform my brother William, who will acquaint
Edmund with your mean intentions.” Upon this the cabal drew back, and
Mr. Wenlock protested that he meant no more than to mortify his pride,
and make him know his proper station. Soon after Sir Robert withdrew,
and they resumed their deliberations.


Then spoke Thomas Hewson: “There is a party to be sent out to-morrow
night, to intercept a convoy of provisions for the relief of Rouen;
I will provoke Mr. Edmund to make one of this party, and when he is
engaged in the action, I and my companions will draw off, and leave him
to the enemy, who I trust will so handle him, that you shall no more be
troubled with him.”

“This will do,” said Mr. Wenlock; “but let it be kept from my two
cousins, and only known to ourselves; if they offer to be of the party,
I will persuade them off it. And you, Thomas, if you bring this scheme
to a conclusion, may depend upon my eternal gratitude.”

“And mine,” said Markham; and so said all. The next day the affair was
publicly mentioned; and Hewson, as he promised, provoked Edmund to the
trial. Several young men of family offered themselves; among the rest,
Sir Robert, and his brother William. Mr. Wenlock persuaded them not to
go, and set the danger of the enterprize in the strongest colours. At
last Sir Robert complained of the tooth-ache, and was confined to his
tent. Edmund waited on him; and judging by the ardour of his own courage
of that of his patron, thus bespoke him:--“I am greatly concerned, dear
Sir, that we cannot have your company at night; but as I know what you
will suffer in being absent, I would beg the favour of you to let me use
your arms and device, and I will promise not to disgrace them.”

“No, Edmund, I cannot consent to that: I thank you for your noble offer,
and will remember it to your advantage; but I cannot wear honours of
another man’s getting. You have awakened me to a sense of my duty: I
will go with you, and contend with you for glory; and William shall do
the same.”


In a few hours they were ready to set out. Wenlock and Markham, and
their dependants, found themselves engaged in honour to go upon an
enterprize they never intended; and set out, with heavy hearts, to join
the party. They marched in silence in the horrors of a dark night,
and wet roads; they met the convoy where they expected, and a sharp
engagement ensued. The victory was some time doubtful; but the moon
rising on the backs of the English, gave them the advantage. They saw
the disposition of their enemies, and availed themselves of it. Edmund
advanced the foremost of the party; he drew out the leader on the French
side; he slew him. Mr. William pressed forward to assist his friend; Sir
Robert, to defend his brother; Wenlock, and Markham, from shame to stay
behind.


Thomas Hewson and his associates drew back on their side; the French
perceived it, and pursued the advantage. Edmund pushed them in front;
the young nobles all followed him; they broke through the detachment,
and stopped the waggons. The officer who commanded the party, encouraged
them to go on; the defeat was soon complete, and the provisions carried
in triumph to the English camp.

Edmund was presented to the Regent as the man to whom the victory was
chiefly owing. Not a tongue presumed to move itself against him; even
malice and envy were silenced.

“Approach, young man,” said the Regent, “that I may confer upon you the
honour of knighthood, which you have well deserved.”

 Mr. Wenlock could no longer forbear speaking--“Knighthood,” said he,
“is an order belonging to gentlemen, it cannot be conferred on a
peasant.”

“What say you, sir!” returned the Regent; “is this youth a peasant?”

“He is,” said Wenlock; “let him deny it if he can.”

Edmund, with a modest bow, replied, “It is true indeed I am a peasant,
and this honour is too great for me; I have only done my duty.”

The Duke of York, whose pride of birth equalled that of any man living
or dead, sheathed his sword immediately. “Though,” said he, “I cannot
reward you as I intended, I will take care that you shall have a large
share in the spoils of this night; and, I declare publicly, that you
stand first in the list of gallant men in this engagement.”

Thomas Hewson and his associates made a poor figure in their return;
they were publicly reproved for their backwardness. Hewson was wounded
in body and more in mind, for the bad success of his ill-laid design.
He could not hold up his head before Edmund; who, unconscious of their
malice, administered every kind of comfort to them. He spoke in their
behalf to the commanding officer, imputing their conduct to unavoidable
accidents. He visited them privately; he gave them a part of the spoils
allotted to himself; by every act of valour and courtesy he strove to
engage those hearts that hated, envied, and maligned him: But where
hatred arises from envy of superior qualities, every display of those
qualities increases the cause from whence it arises.


[Another pause ensues here.]


The young nobles and gentlemen who distinguished Edmund were prevented
from raising him to preferment by the insinuations of Wenlock and his
associates, who never failed to set before them his low descent, and his
pride and arrogance in presuming to rank with gentlemen.



[Here the manuscript is not legible for several pages. There is mention,
about this time, of the death of the Lady Fitz-Owen, but not the cause.]



Wenlock rejoiced to find that his schemes took effect, and that they
should be recalled at the approach of winter. The Baron was glad of
a pretence to send for them home; for he could no longer endure the
absence of his children, after the loss of their mother.


[The manuscript is again defaced for many leaves; at length the letters
become more legible, and the remainder of it is quite perfect.]



From the time the young men returned from France, the enemies of Edmund
employed their utmost abilities to ruin him in the Baron’s opinion, and
get him dismissed from the family. They insinuated a thousand things
against him, that happened, as they said, during his residence in
France, and therefore could not be known to his master; but when the
Baron privately enquired of his two elder sons, he found there was no
truth in their reports. Sir Robert, though he did not love him, scorned
to join in untruths against him. Mr. William spoke of him with the
warmth of fraternal affection. The Baron perceived that his kinsmen
disliked Edmund; but his own good heart hindered him from seeing the
baseness of theirs. It is said, that continual dropping will wear away a
stone; so did their incessant reports, by insensible degrees, produce a
coolness in his patron’s behaviour towards him. If he behaved with manly
spirit, it was misconstrued into pride and arrogance; his generosity
was imprudence; his humility was hypocrisy, the better to cover his
ambition. Edmund bore patiently all the indignities that were thrown
upon him; and, though he felt them severely in his bosom, scorned to
justify his conduct at the expence even of his enemies. Perhaps his
gentle spirit might at length have sunk under this treatment, but
providence interposed in his behalf; and, by seemingly accidental
circumstances, conducted him imperceptibly towards the crisis of his
fate.


Father Oswald, who had been preceptor to the young men, had a strong
affection for Edmund, from a thorough knowledge of his heart; he saw
through the mean artifices that were used to undermine him in his
patron’s favour; he watched their machinations, and strove to frustrate
their designs.


This good man used frequently to walk out with Edmund; they conversed
upon various subjects; and the youth would lament to him the unhappiness
of his situation, and the peculiar circumstances that attended him.
The father, by his wholesome advice, comforted his drooping heart,
and confirmed him in his resolution of bearing unavoidable evils with
patience and fortitude, from the consciousness of his own innocence, and
the assurance of a future and eternal reward.

One day, as they were walking in a wood near the castle, Edmund asked
the father, what meant those preparations for building, the cutting down
trees, and burning of bricks?

“What,” said Oswald, “have you not heard that my Lord is going to build
a new apartment on the west side of the castle?”

“And why,” said Edmund, “should my Lord be at that expence when there is
one on the east side that is never occupied?”

“That apartment,” said the friar, “you must have observed is always shut
up.”

“I have observed it often,” said Edmund; “but I never presumed to ask
any questions about it.”

“You had then,” said Oswald, “less curiosity, and more discretion, than
is common at your age.”

“You have raised my curiosity,” said Edmund; “and, if it be not
improper, I beg of you to gratify it.”

“We are alone,” said Oswald, “and I am so well assured of your prudence,
that I will explain this mystery in some degree to you.”

“You must know, that apartment was occupied by the last Lord Lovel when
he was a batchelor. He married in his father’s lifetime, who gave up his
own apartment to him, and offered to retire to this himself; but the son
would not permit him; he chose to sleep here, rather than in any other.
He had been married about three months, when his father, the old lord,
died of a fever. About twelve months after his marriage, he was called
upon to attend the King, Henry the Fourth, on an expedition into Wales,
whither he was attended by many of his dependants. He left his lady big
with child, and full of care and anxiety for his safety and return.

“After the King had chastised the rebels, and obtained the victory, the
Lord Lovel was expected home every day; various reports were sent home
before him; one messenger brought an account of his health and safety;
soon after another came with bad news, that he was slain in battle. His
kinsman, Sir Walter Lovel, came here on a visit to comfort the Lady; and
he waited to receive his kinsman at his return. It was he that brought
the news of the sad event of the battle to the Lady Lovel.

“She fainted away at the relation; but, when she revived, exerted the
utmost resolution; saying, it was her duty to bear this dreadful stroke
with Christian fortitude and patience, especially in regard to the
child she went with, the last remains of her beloved husband, and the
undoubted heir of a noble house. For several days she seemed an example
of patience and resignation; but then, all at once, she renounced them,
and broke out into passionate and frantic exclamations; she said, that
her dear lord was basely murdered; that his ghost had appeared to her,
and revealed his fate. She called upon Heaven and earth to revenge her
wrongs; saying, she would never cease complaining to God, and the King,
for vengeance and justice.

“Upon this, Sir Walter told the servants that Lady Lovel was distracted,
from grief for the death of her Lord; that his regard for her was as
strong as ever; and that, if she recovered, he would himself be her
comforter, and marry her. In the mean time she was confined in this very
apartment, and in less than a month the poor Lady died. She lies buried
in the family vault in St. Austin’s church in the village. Sir Walter
took possession of the castle, and all the other estates, and assumed
the title of Lord Lovel.

“Soon after, it was reported that the castle was haunted, and that the
ghosts of Lord and Lady Lovel had been seen by several of the servants.
Whoever went into this apartment were terrified by uncommon noises, and
strange appearances; at length this apartment was wholly shut up, and
the servants were forbid to enter it, or to talk of any thing relating
to it: However, the story did not stop here; it was whispered about,
that the new Lord Lovel was so disturbed every night, that he could
not sleep in quiet; and, being at last tired of the place, he sold
the castle and estate of his ancestors, to his brother-in-law the Lord
Fitz-Owen, who now enjoys it, and left this country.”

“All this is news to me,” said Edmund; “but, father, tell me what
grounds there were for the lady’s suspicion that her lord died
unfairly?”

“Alas!” said Oswald, “that is only known to God. There were strange
thoughts in the minds of many at that time; I had mine; but I will
not disclose them, not even to you. I will not injure those who may be
innocent; and I leave it to Providence, who will doubtless, in its own
best time and manner, punish the guilty. But let what I have told you be
as if you had never heard it.”

“I thank you for these marks of your esteem and confidence,” said
Edmund; “be assured that I will not abuse them; nor do I desire to
pry into secrets not proper to be revealed. I entirely approve your
discretion, and acquiesce in your conclusion, that Providence will in
its own time vindicate its ways to man; if it were not for that trust,
my situation would be insupportable. I strive earnestly to deserve the
esteem and favour of good men; I endeavour to regulate my conduct so as
to avoid giving offence to any man; but I see, with infinite pain, that
it is impossible for me to gain these points.”

“I see it too, with great concern,” said Oswald; “and every thing that I
can say and do in your favour is misconstrued; and, by seeking to do you
service, I lose my own influence. But I will never give my sanction to
acts of injustice, nor join to oppress innocence. My dear child, put
your trust in God: He who brought light out of darkness, can bring good
out of evil.”

“I hope and trust so,” said Edmund; “but, father, if my enemies should
prevail--if my lord should believe their stories against me, and I
should be put out of the house with disgrace, what will become of me?
I have nothing but my character to depend upon; if I lose that, I lose
every thing; and I see they seek no less than my ruin.”

“Trust in my lord’s honour and justice,” replied Oswald; “he knows your
virtue, and he is not ignorant of their ill-will towards you.”

“I know my lord’s justice too well to doubt it,” said Edmund; “but
would it not be better to rid him of this trouble, and his family of an
incumbrance? I would gladly do something for myself, but cannot without
my lord’s recommendation; and, such is my situation, that I fear the
asking for a dismission would be accounted base ingratitude; beside,
when I think of leaving this house, my heart saddens at the thought, and
tells me I cannot be happy out of it; yet I think I could return to a
peasant’s life with cheerfulness, rather than live in a palace under
disdain and contempt.”

“Have patience a little longer, my son,” said Oswald; “I will think
of some way to serve you, and to represent your grievances to my lord,
without offence to either--perhaps the causes may be removed. Continue
to observe the same irreproachable conduct; and be assured that Heaven
will defend your innocence, and defeat the unjust designs of your
enemies. Let us now return home.”

About a week after this conference, Edmund walked out in the fields
ruminating on the disagreeable circumstances of his situation.
Insensible of the time, he had been out several hours without perceiving
how the day wore away, when he heard himself called by name several
times; looking backward, he saw his friend Mr. William, and hallooed
to him. He came running towards him; and, leaping over the style, stood
still a while to recover his breath.

“What is the matter, sir?” said Edmund; “your looks bespeak some tidings
of importance.”

With a look of tender concern and affection, the youth pressed his hand
and spoke--

“My dear Edmund, you must come home with me directly; your old enemies
have united to ruin you with my father; my brother Robert has declared
that he thinks there will be no peace in our family till you are
dismissed from it, and told my father, he hoped he would not break with
his kinsmen rather than give up Edmund.”

“But what do they lay to my charge?” said Edmund.

“I cannot rightly understand,” answered William, “for they make a great
mystery of it; something of great consequence, they say; but they will
not tell me what: However, my father has told them that they must bring
their accusation before your face, and he will have you answer them
publicly. I have been seeking you this hour, to inform you of this, that
you might be prepared to defend yourself against your accusers.”

“God reward you, sir,” said Edmund, “for all your goodness to me! I
see they are determined to ruin me if possible: I shall be compelled to
leave the castle; but, whatever becomes of me, be assured you shall have
no cause to blush for your kindness and partiality to your Edmund.”

“I know it, I am sure of it,” said William; “and here I swear to you, as
Jonathan did to David, I beseech Heaven to bless me, as my friendship to
you shall be steady and inviolable!”

“Only so long as I shall deserve so great a blessing,” interrupted
Edmund.

“I know your worth and honour,” continued William; “and such is my
confidence in your merit, that I firmly believe Heaven designs you for
something extraordinary; and I expect that some great and unforeseen
event will raise you to the rank and station to which you appear to
belong: Promise me, therefore, that whatever may be your fate you will
preserve the same friendship for me that I bear to you.”

Edmund was so much affected that he could not answer but in broken
sentences.

“Oh my friend, my master! I vow, I promise, my heart promises!”

He kneeled down with clasped hands, and uplifted eyes. William kneeled
by him, and they invoked the Supreme to witness to their friendship,
and implored His blessing upon it. They then rose up and embraced each
other, while tears of cordial affection bedewed their cheeks.

As soon as they were able to speak, Edmund conjured his friend not to
expose himself to the displeasure of his family out of kindness to him.

“I submit to the will of Heaven,” said he; “I wait with patience its
disposal of me; if I leave the castle, I will find means to inform you
of my fate and fortunes.”

“I hope,” said William, “that things may yet be accommodated; but do not
take any resolution, let us act as occasions arise.”

In this manner these amiable youths conferred, till they arrived at the
castle. The Baron was sitting in the great hall, on a high chair with a
footstep before, with the state and dignity of a judge; before him stood
Father Oswald, as pleading the cause for himself and Edmund. Round the
Baron’s chair stood his eldest son and his kinsmen, with their principal
domestics. The old servant, Joseph, at some distance, with his head
leaning forward, as listening with the utmost attention to what passed.
Mr. William approached the chair. “My Lord, I have found Edmund, and
brought him to answer for himself.”

“You have done well,” said the Baron. “Edmund, come hither; you are
charged with some indiscretions, for I cannot properly call them crimes:
I am resolved to do justice between you and your accusers; I shall
therefore hear you as well as them; for no man ought to be condemned
unheard.”

“My lord,” said Edmund, with equal modesty and intrepidity, “I demand my
trial; if I shall be found guilty of any crimes against my Benefactor,
let me be punished with the utmost rigour; But if, as I trust, no such
charge can be proved against me, I know your goodness too well to doubt
that you will do justice to me, as well as to others; and if it should
so happen that by the misrepresentations of my enemies (who have
long sought my ruin privately, and now avow it publicly), if by their
artifices your lordship should be induced to think me guilty, I would
submit to your sentence in silence, and appeal to another tribunal.”

“See,” said Mr. Wenlock, “the confidence of the fellow! he already
supposes that my lord must be in the wrong if he condemns him; and then
this meek creature will appeal to another tribunal. To whose will he
appeal? I desire he may be made to explain himself.”

“That I will immediately,” said Edmund, “without being compelled. I only
meant to appeal to Heaven that best knows my innocence.”

“‘Tis true,” said the Baron, “and no offence to any one; man can only
judge by appearances, but Heaven knows the heart; Let every one of
you bear this in mind, that you may not bring a false accusation, nor
justify yourselves by concealing the truth. Edmund, I am informed that
Oswald and you have made very free with me and my family, in some of
your conversations; you were heard to censure me for the absurdity of
building a new apartment on the west side of the castle, when there was
one on the east side uninhabited. Oswald said, that apartment was shut
up because it was haunted; that some shocking murder had been committed
there; adding many particulars concerning Lord Lovel’s family, such as
he could not know the truth of, and, if he had known, was imprudent
to reveal. But, further, you complained of ill-treatment here; and
mentioned an intention to leave the castle, and seek your fortune
elsewhere. I shall examine into all these particulars in turn. At
present I desire you, Edmund, to relate all that you can remember of
the conversation that passed between you and Oswald in the wood last
Monday.”

“Good God!” said Edmund, “is it possible that any person could put such
a construction upon so innocent a conversation?”

“Tell me then,” said the Baron, “the particulars of it.”

“I will, my lord, as nearly as my memory will allow me.” Accordingly he
related most of the conversation that passed in the wood; but, in the
part that concerned the family of Lovel, he abbreviated as much as
possible. Oswald’s countenance cleared up, for he had done the same
before Edmund came. The Baron called to his eldest son.

“You hear, Sir Robert, what both parties say; I have questioned them
separately; neither of them knew what the other would answer, yet their
accounts agree almost to a word.”

“I confess they do so,” answered Sir Robert; “but, sir, it is very bold
and presuming for them to speak of our family affairs in such a manner;
if my uncle, Lord Lovel, should come to know it, he would punish them
severely; and, if his honour is reflected upon, it becomes us to resent
and to punish it.” Here Mr. Wenlock broke out into passion, and offered
to swear to the truth of his accusation.

“Be silent, Dick,” said the Baron; “I shall judge for myself. I
protest,” said he to Sir Robert, “I never heard so much as Oswald has now
told me concerning the deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel; I think it is
best to let such stories alone till they die away of themselves. I had,
indeed, heard of an idle story of the east apartment’s being haunted,
when first I came hither, and my brother advised me to shut it up till
it should be forgotten; but what has now been said, has suggested a
thought that may make that apartment useful in future. I have thought of
a punishment for Edmund that will stop the mouth of his accusers for
the present; and, as I hope, will establish his credit with every body.
Edmund, will you undertake this adventure for me?”

“What adventure, my Lord,” said Edmund? “There is nothing I would not
undertake to shew my gratitude and fidelity to you. As to my courage, I
would shew that at the expence of my malicious accusers, if respect to
my Lord’s blood did not tie up my hands; as I am situated, I beg it may
be put to the proof in whatever way is most for my master’s service.”

“That is well said,” cried the Baron; “as to your enemies, I am thinking
how to separate you from them effectually; of that I shall speak
hereafter. I am going to try Edmund’s courage; he shall sleep three
nights in the east apartment, that he may testify to all whether it be
haunted or not; afterwards I will have that apartment set in order, and
my eldest son shall take it for his own; it will spare me some expence,
and answer my purpose as well, or better; Will you consent, Edmund?”

“With all my heart, my Lord,” said Edmund, “I have not wilfully offended
God or man; I have, therefore, nothing to fear.”

“Brave boy!” said my Lord; “I am not deceived in you, nor shall you
be deceived in your reliance on me. You shall sleep in that apartment
to-night, and to-morrow I will have some private talk with you. Do you,
Oswald, go with me; I want to have some conversation with you. The rest
of you, retire to your studies and business; I will meet you at dinner.”

Edmund retired to his own chamber, and Oswald was shut up with the
Baron; he defended Edmund’s cause and his own, and laid open as much as
he knew of the malice and designs of his enemies. The Baron expressed
much concern at the untimely deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel, and
desired Oswald to be circumspect in regard to what he had to say of the
circumstances attending them; adding, that he was both innocent and
ignorant of any treachery towards either of them. Oswald excused himself
for his communications to Edmund, saying, they fell undesignedly into
the subject, and that he mentioned it in confidence to him only.

The Baron sent orders to the young men to come to dinner; but they
refused to meet Edmund at table; accordingly he ate in the steward’s
apartment. After dinner, the Baron tried to reconcile his kinsmen to
Edmund; but found it impossible. They saw their designs were laid open;
and, judging of him by themselves, thought it impossible to forgive or
be forgiven. The Baron ordered them to keep in separate apartments; he
took his eldest son for his own companion, as being the most reasonable
of the malcontents; and ordered his kinsmen to keep their own apartment,
with a servant to watch their motions. Mr. William had Oswald for his
companion. Old Joseph was bid to attend on Edmund; to serve him
at supper; and, at the hour of nine, to conduct him to the haunted
apartment. Edmund desired that he might have a light and his sword,
lest his enemies should endeavour to surprise him. The Baron thought his
request reasonable, and complied with it.

There was a great search to find the key of the apartment; at last it
was discovered by Edmund, himself, among a parcel of old rusty keys in
a lumber room. The Baron sent the young men their suppers to their
respective apartments. Edmund declined eating, and desired to be
conducted to his apartment. He was accompanied by most of the servants
to the door of it; they wished him success, and prayed for him as if he
had been going to execution.

The door was with great difficulty unlocked, and Joseph gave Edmund a
lighted lamp, and wished him a good night; he returned his good wishes
to them all with the utmost cheerfulness, took the key on the inside of
the door, and dismissed them.

He then took a survey of his chamber; the furniture, by long neglect,
was decayed and dropping to pieces; the bed was devoured by the moths,
and occupied by the rats, who had built their nests there with impunity
for many generations. The bedding was very damp, for the rain had forced
its way through the ceiling; he determined, therefore, to lie down in
his clothes. There were two doors on the further side of the room, with
keys in them; being not at all sleepy, he resolved to examine them;
he attempted one lock, and opened it with ease; he went into a large
dining-room, the furniture of which was in the same tattered condition;
out of this was a large closet with some books in it, and hung round
with coats of arms, with genealogies and alliances of the house of
Lovel; he amused himself here some minutes, and then returned into the
bed-chamber.

He recollected the other door, and resolved to see where it led to; the
key was rusted into the lock, and resisted his attempts; he set the lamp
on the ground, and, exerting all his strength, opened the door, and at
the same instant the wind of it blew out the lamp, and left him in utter
darkness. At the same moment he heard a hollow rustling noise, like that
of a person coming through a narrow passage. Till this moment not one
idea of fear had approached the mind of Edmund; but, just then, all the
concurrent circumstances of his situation struck upon his heart, and
gave him a new and disagreeable sensation. He paused a while; and,
recollecting himself, cried out aloud. “What should I fear? I have not
wilfully offended God or man; why then should I doubt protection? But I
have not yet implored the divine assistance; how then can I expect
it!” Upon this, he kneeled down and prayed earnestly, resigning himself
wholly to the will of heaven; while he was yet speaking, his courage
returned, and he resumed his usual confidence; again he approached the
door from whence the noise proceeded; he thought he saw a glimmering
light upon a staircase before him. “If,” said he, “this apartment is
haunted, I will use my endeavours to discover the cause of it; and if
the spirit appears visibly, I will speak to it.”

He was preparing to descend the staircase, when he heard several knocks
at the door by which he first entered the room; and, stepping backward,
the door was clapped to with great violence. Again fear attacked him,
but he resisted it, and boldly cried out, “Who is there?”

A voice at the outer door answered, “It’s I; Joseph, your friend!”

“What do you want?” said Edmund.

“I have brought you some wood to make a fire,” said Joseph.

“I thank you kindly,” said Edmund; “but my lamp is gone out; I will try
to find the door, however.”

After some trouble he found, and opened it; and was not sorry to see his
friend Joseph, with a light in one hand, a flagon of beer in the other,
and a fagot upon his shoulder. “I come,” said the good old man, “to
bring you something to keep up your spirits; the evening is cold; I know
this room wants airing; and beside that, my master, I think your present
undertaking requires a little assistance.”

“My good friend,” said Edmund, “I never shall be able to deserve or
requite your kindness to me.”

“My dear sir, you always deserved more than I could do for you; and I
think I shall yet live to see you defeat the designs of your enemies,
and acknowledge the services of your friends.”

“Alas!” said Edmund, “I see little prospect of that!”

“I see,” said Joseph, “something that persuades me you are designed for
great things; and I perceive that things are working about to some great
end: have courage, my Master, my heart beats strangely high upon your
account!”

“You make me smile,” said Edmund.

“I am glad to see it, sir; may you smile all the rest of your life!”

“I thank your honest affection,” returned Edmund, “though it is too
partial to me. You had better go to bed, however; if it is known that
you visit me here, it will be bad for us both.”

“So I will presently; but, please God, I will come here again to-morrow
night, when all the family are a-bed; and I will tell you some things
that you never yet heard.”

“But pray tell me,” said Edmund, “where does that door lead to?”

“Upon a passage that ends in a staircase that leads to the lower rooms;
and there is likewise a door out of that passage into the dining-room.”

“And what rooms are there below stairs,” said Edmund?

“The same as above,” replied he.

“Very well; then I wish you a good night, we will talk further
to-morrow.”

“Aye, to-morrow night; and in this place, my dear master.”

“Why do you call me your master? I never was, nor ever can be, your
master.”

“God only knows that,” said the good old man; “good-night, and heaven
bless you!”

“Good-night, my worthy friend!”

Joseph withdrew, and Edmund returned to the other door, and attempted
several times to open it in vain; his hands were benumbed and tired; at
length he gave over. He made a fire in the chimney, placed the lamp on a
table, and opened one of the window-shutters to admit the day-light;
he then recommended himself to the Divine protection, and threw himself
upon the bed; he presently fell asleep, and continued in that state,
till the sun saluted him with his orient beams through the window he had
opened.

As soon as he was perfectly awake, he strove to recollect his dreams.
He thought that he heard people coming up the staircase that he had a
glimpse of; that the door opened, and there entered a warrior, leading a
lady by the hand, who was young and beautiful, but pale and wan; The man
was dressed in complete armour, and his helmet down. They approached
the bed; they undrew the curtains. He thought the man said, “Is this our
child?” The woman replied, “It is; and the hour approaches that he shall
be known for such.” They then separated, and one stood on each side
of the bed; their hands met over his head, and they gave him a solemn
benediction. He strove to rise and pay them his respects, but they
forbad him; and the lady said, “Sleep in peace, oh my Edmund! for
those who are the true possessors of this apartment are employed in
thy preservation; sleep on, sweet hope of a house that is thought past
hope!”

Upon this, they withdrew, and went out at the same door by which they
entered, and he heard them descend the stairs. After this, he followed
a funeral as chief mourner; he saw the whole procession, and heard the
ceremonies performed. He was snatched away from this mournful scene to
one of a contrary kind, a stately feast, at which he presided; and
he heard himself congratulated as a husband, and a father; his
friend William sat by his side; and his happiness was complete. Every
succeeding idea was happiness without allay; and his mind was not idle
a moment till the morning sun awakened him. He perfectly remembered his
dreams, and meditated on what all these things should portend. “Am I
then,” said he, “not Edmund Twyford, but somebody of consequence in
whose fate so many people are interested? Vain thought, that must have
arisen from the partial suggestion of my two friends, Mr. William and
old Joseph.”

He lay thus reflecting, when a servant knocked at his door, and told him
it was past six o’clock, and that the Baron expected him to breakfast in
an hour. He rose immediately; paid his tribute of thanks to heaven for
its protection, and went from his chamber in high health and spirits. He
walked in the garden till the hour of breakfast, and then attended the
Baron.

“Good morrow, Edmund!” said he; “how have you rested in your new
apartment?”

“Extremely well, my lord,” answered he.

“I am glad to hear it,” said the Baron; “but I did not know your
accommodations were so bad, as Joseph tells me they are.”

“‘Tis of no consequence,” said Edmund; “if they were much worse, I could
dispense with them for three nights.”

“Very well,” said the Baron; “you are a brave lad; I am satisfied with
you, and will excuse the other two nights.”

“But, my lord, I will not be excused; no one shall have reason to
suspect my courage; I am determined to go through the remaining nights
upon many accounts.”

“That shall be as you please,” said my Lord. “I think of you as you
deserve; so well, that I shall ask your advice by and by in some affairs
of consequence.”

“My life and services are yours, my lord; command them freely.”

“Let Oswald be called in,” said my Lord; “he shall be one of our
consultation.” He came; the servants were dismissed; and the Baron spoke
as follows:

“Edmund, when first I took you into my family, it was at the request of
my sons and kinsmen; I bear witness to your good behaviour, you have not
deserved to lose their esteem; but, nevertheless, I have observed
for some years past, that all but my son William have set their faces
against you; I see their meanness, and I perceive their motives: but
they are, and must be, my relations; and I would rather govern them by
love, than fear. I love and esteem your virtues: I cannot give you up
to gratify their humours. My son William has lost the affections of the
rest, for that he bears to you; but he has increased my regard for him;
I think myself bound in honour to him and you to provide for you; I
cannot do it, as I wished, under my own roof. If you stay here, I see
nothing but confusion in my family; yet I cannot put you out of it
disgracefully. I want to think of some way to prefer you, that you may
leave this house with honour; and I desire both of you to give me your
advice in this matter. If Edmund will tell me in what way I can employ
him to his own honour and my advantage, I am ready to do it; let him
propose it, and Oswald shall moderate between us.”

Here he stopped; and Edmund, whose sighs almost choked him, threw
himself at the Baron’s feet, and wet his hand with his tears: “Oh, my
noble, generous benefactor! do you condescend to consult such a one as
me upon the state of your family? does your most amiable and beloved son
incur the ill-will of his brothers and kinsmen for my sake? What am I,
that I should disturb the peace of this noble family? Oh, my lord, send
me away directly! I should be unworthy to live, if I did not earnestly
endeavour to restore your happiness. You have given me a noble
education, and I trust I shall not disgrace it. If you will recommend
me, and give me a character, I fear not to make my own fortune.”

The Baron wiped his eyes; “I wish to do this, my child, but in what way?”

“My lord,” said Edmund, “I will open my heart to you. I have served with
credit in the army, and I should prefer a soldier’s life.”

“You please me well,” said the Baron; “I will send you to France, and
give you a recommendation to the Regent; he knows you personally, and
will prefer you, for my sake, and for your own merit.”

“My lord, you overwhelm me with your goodness! I am but your creature,
and my life shall be devoted to your service.”

“But,” said the Baron, “how to dispose of you till the spring?”

“That,” said Oswald, “may be thought of at leisure; I am glad that you
have resolved, and I congratulate you both.” The Baron put an end to the
conversation by desiring Edmund to go with him into the menage to see
his horses. He ordered Oswald to acquaint his son William with all that
had passed, and to try to persuade the young men to meet Edmund and
William at dinner.

The Baron took Edmund with him into his menage to see some horses he had
lately purchased; while they were examining the beauties and defects
of these noble and useful animals, Edmund declared that he preferred
Caradoc, a horse he had broke himself, to any other in my lord’s
stables. “Then,” said the Baron, “I will give him to you; and you shall
go upon him to seek your fortune.” He made new acknowledgments for this
gift, and declared he would prize it highly for the giver’s sake. “But
I shall not part with you yet,” said my lord; “I will first carry all my
points with these saucy boys, and oblige them to do you justice.”

“You have already done that,” said Edmund; “and I will not suffer any
of your Lordship’s blood to undergo any farther humiliation upon my
account. I think, with humble submission to your better judgment, the
sooner I go hence the better.”

While they were speaking, Oswald came to them, and said, that the young
men had absolutely refused to dine at the table, if Edmund was present.
“‘Tis well,” said the Baron; “I shall find a way to punish their
contumacy hereafter; I will make them know that I am the master here.
Edmund and you, Oswald, shall spend the day in my apartment above
stairs. William shall dine with me alone; and I will acquaint him with
our determination; my son Robert, and his cabal, shall be prisoners in
the great parlour. Edmund shall, according to his own desire, spend this
and the following night in the haunted apartment; and this for his sake,
and my own; for if I should now contradict my former orders, it would
subject us both to their impertinent reflections.”

He then took Oswald aside, and charged him not to let Edmund go out of
his sight; for if he should come in the way of those implacable enemies,
he trembled for the consequences. He then walked back to the stables,
and the two friends returned into the house.

They had a long conversation on various subjects; in the course of it,
Edmund acquainted Oswald with all that had passed between him and Joseph
the preceding night, the curiosity he had raised in him, and his promise
to gratify it the night following.

“I wish,” said Oswald, “you would permit me to be one of your party.”

“How can that be?” said Edmund; “we shall be watched, perhaps; and, if
discovered, what excuse can you make for coming there? Beside, if it
were known, I shall be branded with the imputation of cowardice; and,
though I have borne much, I will not promise to bear that patiently.”

“Never fear,” replied Oswald, “I will speak to Joseph about it; and,
after prayers are over and the family gone to bed, I will steal away
from my own chamber and come to you. I am strongly interested in your
affairs; and I cannot be easy unless you will receive me into your
company; I will bind myself to secrecy in any manner you shall enjoin.”


“Your word is sufficient,” said Edmund; “I have as much reason to trust
you, father, as any man living; I should be ungrateful to refuse you any
thing in my power to grant; But suppose the apartment should really be
haunted, would you have resolution enough to pursue the adventure to a
discovery?”

“I hope so,” said Oswald; “but have you any reason to believe it is?”

“I have,” said Edmund; “but I have not opened my lips upon this subject
to any creature but yourself. This night I purpose, if Heaven permit,
to go all over the rooms; and, though I had formed this design, I will
confess that your company will strengthen my resolution. I will have no
reserves to you in any respect; but I must put a seal upon your lips.”

Oswald swore secrecy till he should be permitted to disclose the
mysteries of that apartment; and both of them waited, in solemn
expectation, the event of the approaching night.

In the afternoon Mr. William was allowed to visit his friend. An
affecting interview passed between them. He lamented the necessity of
Edmund’s departure; and they took a solemn leave of each other, as if
they foreboded it would be long ere they should meet again.

About the same hour as the preceding evening, Joseph came to conduct
Edmund to his apartment.

“You will find better accommodations than you had last night,” said he,
“and all by my lord’s own order.”

“I every hour receive some new proof of his goodness,” said Edmund.

When they arrived, he found a good fire in the chamber, and a table
covered with cold meats, and a flagon of strong beer.

“Sit down and get your supper, my dear Master,” said Joseph: “I must
attend my Lord; but as soon as the family are gone to bed, I will visit
you again.”

“Do so,” said Edmund; “but first, see Father Oswald; he has something to
say to you. You may trust him, for I have no reserves to him.”

“Well, Sir, I will see him if you desire it; and I will come to you as
soon as possible.” So saying, he went his way, and Edmund sat down to
supper.

After a moderate refreshment, he kneeled down, and prayed with the
greatest fervency. He resigned himself to the disposal of Heaven: “I
am nothing,” said he, “I desire to be nothing but what thou, O Lord,
pleasest to make me. If it is thy will that I should return to my former
obscurity, be it obeyed with cheerfulness; and, if thou art pleased to
exalt me, I will look up to thee, as the only fountain of honour and
dignity.” While he prayed, he felt an enlargement of heart beyond what
he had ever experienced before; all idle fears were dispersed, and his
heart glowed with divine love and affiance;--he seemed raised above the
world and all its pursuits. He continued wrapt up in mental devotion,
till a knocking at the door obliged him to rise, and let in his two
friends, who came without shoes, and on tiptoe, to visit him.

“Save you, my son!” said the friar; “you look cheerful and happy.”

“I am so, father,” said Edmund; “I have resigned myself to the disposal
of Heaven, and I find my heart strengthened above what I can express.”

“Heaven be praised!” said Oswald: “I believe you are designed for great
things, my son.”

“What! do you too encourage my ambition?” says Edmund; “strange
concurrence of circumstances!--Sit down, my friends; and do you, my
good Joseph, tell me the particulars you promised last night.” They drew
their chairs round the fire, and Joseph began as follows:--

“You have heard of the untimely death of the late Lord Lovel, my noble
and worthy master; perhaps you may have also heard that, from that time,
this apartment was haunted. What passed the other day, when my Lord
questioned you both on this head, brought all the circumstances fresh
into my mind. You then said, there were suspicions that he came not
fairly to his end. I trust you both, and will speak what I know of it.
There was a person suspected of this murder; and whom do you think it
was?”

“You must speak out,” said Oswald.

“Why then,” said Joseph, “it was the present Lord Lovel.”

“You speak my thoughts,” said Oswald; “but proceed to the proofs.”

“I will,” said Joseph.

“From the time that my lord’s death was reported, there were strange
whisperings and consultations between the new lord and some of the
servants; there was a deal of private business carried on in this
apartment. Soon after, they gave out that my poor lady was distracted;
but she threw out strong expressions that savoured nothing of madness.
She said, that the ghost of her departed lord had appeared to her, and
revealed the circumstances of this murder. None of the servants, but
one, were permitted to see her. At this very time, Sir Walter, the new
lord, had the cruelty to offer love to her; he urged her to marry him;
and one of her women overheard her say, she would sooner die than give
her hand to the man who caused the death of her Lord; Soon after
this, we were told my Lady was dead. The Lord Lovel made a public and
sumptuous funeral for her.”

“That is true,” said Oswald; “for I was a novice, and assisted at it.”

“Well,” says Joseph, “now comes my part of the story. As I was coming
home from the burial, I overtook Roger our ploughman. Said he, What
think you of this burying?--‘What should I think,’ said I, ‘but that we
have lost the best Master and Lady that we shall ever know?’ ‘God, He
knows,’ quoth Roger, ‘whether they be living or dead; but if ever I
saw my Lady in my life, I saw her alive the night they say she died.’ I
tried to convince him that he was mistaken; but he offered to take his
oath, that the very night they said she died, he saw her come out at the
garden gate into the fields; that she often stopped, like a person in
pain, and then went forward again until he lost sight of her. Now it is
certain that her time was out, and she expected to lie down every day;
and they did not pretend that she died in child-bed. I thought upon
what I heard, but nothing I said. Roger told the same story to another
servant; so he was called to an account, the story was hushed up, and
the foolish fellow said, he was verily persuaded it was her ghost that
he saw. Now you must take notice that, from this time, they began to
talk about, that this apartment was troubled; and not only this, but
at last the new Lord could not sleep in quiet in his own room; and this
induced him to sell the castle to his brother-in-law, and get out of
this country as fast as possible. He took most of the servants away with
him, and Roger among the rest. As for me, they thought I knew nothing,
and so they left me behind; but I was neither blind nor deaf, though I
could hear, and see, and say nothing.”

“This is a dark story,” said Oswald.

“It is so,” said Edmund; “but why should Joseph seem to think it
concerns me in particular?”

“Ah, dear Sir,” said Joseph, “I must tell you, though I never uttered it
to mortal man before; the striking resemblance this young man bears to
my dear Lord, the strange dislike his reputed father took to him, his
gentle manners, his generous heart, his noble qualities so uncommon in
those of his birth and breeding, the sound of his voice--you may smile
at the strength of my fancy, but I cannot put it out of my mind but that
he is my own master’s son.”

At these words Edmund changed colour and trembled; he clapped his hand
upon his breast, and looked up to Heaven in silence; his dream recurred
to his memory, and struck upon his heart. He related it to his attentive
auditors.

“The ways of Providence are wonderful,” said Oswald. “If this be so,
Heaven in its own time will make it appear.”

Here a silence of several minutes ensued; when, suddenly, they were
awakened from their reverie by a violent noise in the rooms underneath
them. It seemed like the clashing of arms, and something seemed to fall
down with violence.

They started, and Edmund rose up with a look full of resolution and
intrepidity.

“I am called!” said he; “I obey the call!”

He took up a lamp, and went to the door that he had opened the night
before. Oswald followed with his rosary in his hand, and Joseph last
with trembling steps. The door opened with ease, and they descended the
stairs in profound silence.

The lower rooms answered exactly to those above; there were two parlours
and a large closet. They saw nothing remarkable in these rooms, except
two pictures, that were turned with their faces to the wall. Joseph took
the courage to turn them. “These,” said he, “are the portraits of my
lord and lady. Father, look at this face; do you know who is like it?”

“I should think,” said Oswald, “it was done for Edmund!”

“I am,” said Edmund, “struck with the resemblance myself; but let us go
on; I feel myself inspired with unusual courage. Let us open the closet
door.”

Oswald stopped him short.

“Take heed,” said he, “lest the wind of the door put out the lamp. I
will open this door.”

He attempted it without success; Joseph did the same, but to no purpose;
Edmund gave the lamp to Joseph; he approached the door, tried the key,
and it gave way to his hand in a moment.

“This adventure belongs,” said he, “to me only; that is plain--bring the
lamp forward.”

Oswald repeated the paternoster, in which they all joined, and then
entered the closet.

The first thing that presented itself to their view, was a complete suit
of armour, that seemed to have fallen down on an heap.

“Behold!” said Edmund; “this made the noise we heard above.” They took
it up, and examined it piece by piece; the inside of the breast plate
was stained with blood.

“See here!” said Edmund; “what think you of this?”

“‘Tis my Lord’s armour,” said Joseph; “I know it well--here has been
bloody work in this closet!”

Going forward, he stumbled over something; it was a ring with the arms
of Lovel engraved upon it.

“This is my Lord’s ring,” said Joseph; “I have seen him wear it; I give
it to you, sir, as the right owner; and most religiously do I believe
you his son.”

“Heaven only knows that,” said Edmund; “and, if it permits, I will know
who was my father before I am a day older.”

While he was speaking, he shifted his ground, and perceived that the
boards rose up on the other side of the closet; upon farther examination
they found that the whole floor was loose, and a table that stood over
them concealed the circumstance from a casual observer.

“I perceive,” said Oswald, “that some great discovery is at hand.”

“God defend us!” said Edmund, “but I verily believe that the person that
owned this armour lies buried under us.”

Upon this, a dismal hollow groan was heard, as if from underneath. A
solemn silence ensued, and marks of fear were visible upon all three;
the groan was thrice heard; Oswald made signs for them to kneel, and he
prayed audibly, that Heaven would direct them how to act; he also prayed
for the soul of the departed, that it might rest in peace. After this,
he arose; but Edmund continued kneeling--he vowed solemnly to devote
himself to the discovery of this secret, and the avenging the death of
the person there buried. He then rose up. “It would be to no purpose,”
 said he, “for us to examine further now; when I am properly authorised,
I will have this place opened; I trust that time is not far off.”

“I believe it,” said Oswald; “you are designed by Heaven to be its
instrument in bringing this deed of darkness to light. We are your
creatures; only tell us what you would have us do, and we are ready to
obey your commands.”

“I only demand your silence,” said Edmund, “till I call for your
evidence; and then, you must speak all you know, and all you suspect.”

“Oh,” said Joseph, “that I may but live to see that day, and I shall
have lived long enough!”

“Come,” said Edmund, “let us return up stairs, and we will consult
further how I shall proceed.”

So saying, he went out of the closet, and they followed him. He locked
the door, and took the key out--“I will keep this,” said he, “till I
have power to use it to purpose, lest any one should presume to pry into
the secret of this closet. I will always carry it about me, to remind me
of what I have undertaken.”

Upon this, they returned up stairs into the bed-chamber; all was still,
and they heard nothing more to disturb them. “How,” said Edmund, “is
it possible that I should be the son of Lord Lovel? for, however
circumstances have seemed to encourage such a notion, what reason have I
to believe it?”

“I am strangely puzzled about it,” said Oswald. “It seems unlikely that
so good a man as Lord Lovel should corrupt the wife of a peasant, his
vassal; and, especially, being so lately married to a lady with whom he
was passionately in love.”

“Hold there!” said Joseph; “my lord was incapable of such an action; If
Master Edmund is the son of my lord, he is also the son of my lady.”

“How can that be,” said Edmund?

“I don’t know how,” said Joseph; “but there is a person who can tell if
she will; I mean Margery Twyford, who calls herself your mother.”

“You meet my thoughts,” said Edmund; “I had resolved, before you spoke,
to visit her, and to interrogate her on the subject; I will ask my
Lord’s permission to go this very day.”

“That is right,” said Oswald; “but be cautious and prudent in your
enquiries.”

“If you,” said Edmund, “would bear me company, I should do better; she
might think herself obliged to answer your questions; and, being
less interested in the event, you would be more discreet in your
interrogations.”

“That I will most readily,” said he; “and I will ask my lord’s
permission for us both.”

“This point is well determined,” said Joseph; “I am impatient for
the result; and I believe my feet will carry me to meet you whether I
consent or not.”

“I am as impatient as you,” said Oswald; “but let us be silent as
the grave, and let not a word or look indicate any thing knowing or
mysterious.”

The daylight began to dawn upon their conference; and Edmund, observing
it, begged his friends to withdraw in silence. They did so, and left
Edmund to his own recollections. His thoughts were too much employed for
sleep to approach him; he threw himself upon the bed, and lay meditating
how he should proceed; a thousand schemes offered themselves and were
rejected; But he resolved, at all events, to leave Baron Fitz-Owen’s
family the first opportunity that presented itself.

He was summoned, as before, to attend my lord at breakfast; during
which, he was silent, absent, and reserved. My Lord observed it, and
rallied him; enquiring how he had spent the night?

“In reflecting upon my situation, my Lord; and in laying plans for my
future conduct.” Oswald took the hint, and asked permission to visit
Edmund’s mother in his company, and acquaint her with his intentions
of leaving the country soon. He consented freely; but seemed unresolved
about Edmund’s departure.

They set out directly, and Edmund went hastily to old Twyford’s cottage,
declaring that every field seemed a mile to him. “Restrain your warmth,
my son,” said Oswald; “compose your mind, and recover your breath,
before you enter upon a business of such consequence.” Margery met them
at the door, and asked Edmund, what wind blew him thither?

“Is it so very surprising,” said he, “that I should visit my parents?”

“Yes, it is,” said she, “considering the treatment you have met with
from us; but since Andrew is not in the house, I may say I am glad to
see you; Lord bless you, what a fine youth you be grown! ‘Tis a long
time since I saw you; but that is not my fault; many a cross word,
and many a blow, have I had on your account; but I may now venture to
embrace my dear child.”

Edmund came forward and embraced her fervently; the starting tears,
on both sides, evinced their affection. “And why,” said he, “should
my father forbid you to embrace your child? what have I ever done to
deserve his hatred?”

“Nothing, my dear boy! you were always good and tender-hearted, and
deserved the love of every body.”

“It is not common,” said Edmund, “for a parent to hate his first-born
son without his having deserved it.”

“That is true,” said Oswald; “it is uncommon, it is unnatural; nay, I
am of opinion it is almost impossible. I am so convinced of this truth,
that I believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund, cannot be his
father.” In saying this, he observed her countenance attentively; she
changed colour apparently. “Come,” said he, “let us sit down; and do
you, Margery, answer to what I have said.”

“Blessed Virgin!” said Margery, “what does your reverence mean? what do
you suspect?”

“I suspect,” said he, “that Edmund is not the son of Andrew your
husband.”

“Lord bless me!” said she, “what is it you do suspect?”

“Do not evade my question, woman! I am come here by authority to examine
you upon this point.”

The woman trembled every joint. “Would to Heaven!” said she, “that
Andrew was at home!”

“It is much better as it is,” said Oswald; “you are the person we are to
examine.”

“Oh, father,” said she, “do you think that I--that I--that I am to blame
in this matter? what have I done?”

“Do you, sir,” said he, “ask your own questions.”

Upon this, Edmund threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees.
“O my mother!” said he, “for as such my heart owns you, tell me for the
love of Heaven! tell me, who was my father?”

“Gracious Heaven!” said she, “what will become of me?”

“Woman!” said Oswald, “confess the truth, or you shall be compelled to
do it; by whom had you this youth?”

“Who, I?” said she; “I had him! No, father, I am not guilty of the black
crime of adultery; God, He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the
mother of such a sweet youth as that is.”

“You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his father?”

“Oh, what shall I do?” said Margery; “Andrew will be the death of me!”

“No, he shall not,” said Edmund; “you shall be protected and rewarded
for the discovery.”

“Goody,” said Oswald, “confess the whole truth, and I will protect
you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund’s
fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the
other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all
advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will
soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all
you know, and nobody will thank you for it.”

“Ah,” said she, “but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund;
and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him
again.”

“He knows it then?” said Oswald.

“He know it! Lord help you, it was all his own doing.”

“Tell us then,” said Oswald; “for Andrew shall never know it, till it is
out of his power to punish you.”

“‘Tis a long story,” said she, “and cannot be told in a few words.”

“It will never be told at this rate,” said he; “sit down and begin it
instantly.”

“My fate depends upon your words,” said Edmund; “my soul is impatient
of the suspense! If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and
tell while I have breath to ask it.”

He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally
expressive of his inward emotions.

“I will,” said she; “but I must try to recollect all the circumstances.
You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of
age.”

“On what day was he born,” said Oswald?

“The day before yesterday,” said she, “the 21st of September.”

“A remarkable era,” said he.

“‘Tis so, indeed,” said Edmund; “Oh, that night! that apartment!”

“Be silent,” said Oswald; “and do you, Margery, begin your story.”

“I will,” said she. “Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I
lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was
near my time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I was sitting all
alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; ‘See, Margery,’
said he, ‘I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.’
So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a
poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief,
and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace. ‘And where
did you find this?’ says I. ‘Upon the foot-bridge,’ says he, ‘just below
the clayfield. This child,’ said he, ‘belongs to some great folk, and
perhaps it may be enquired after one day, and may make our fortunes;
take care of it,’ said he, ‘and bring it up as if it was your own.’ The
poor infant was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so pitifully,
that I loved it; beside, my milk was troublesome to me, and I was glad
to be eased of it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I loved
the child as if it were my own, and so I do still if I dared to own it.”

“And this is all you know of Edmund’s birth?” said Oswald.

“No, not all,” said Margery; “but pray look out and see whether Andrew
is coming, for I am all over in a twitter.”

“He is not,” said Oswald; “go on, I beseech you!”

“This happened,” said she, “as I told you, on the 21st. On the morrow,
my Andrew went out early to work, along with one Robin Rouse, our
neighbour; they had not been gone above an hour, when they both came
back seemingly very much frightened. Says Andrew, ‘Go you, Robin, and
borrow a pickaxe at neighbour Styles’s.’ What is the matter now?’ said
I. ‘Matter enough!’ quoth Andrew; ‘we may come to be hanged, perhaps, as
many an innocent man has before us.’ ‘Tell me what is the matter,’ said
I. ‘I will,’ said he; ‘but if ever you open your mouth about it, woe be
to you!’ ‘I never will,’ said I; but he made me swear by all the blessed
saints in the Calendar; and then he told me, that, as Robin and he were
going over the foot-bridge, where he found the child the evening before,
they saw something floating upon the water; so they followed it, till it
stuck against a stake, and found it to be the dead body of a woman;
‘as sure as you are alive, Madge,’ said he, ‘this was the mother of the
child I brought home.’”

“Merciful God!” said Edmund; “am I the child of that hapless mother?”

“Be composed,” said Oswald; “proceed, good woman, the time is precious.”

“And so,” continued she, “Andrew told me they dragged the body out
of the river, and it was richly dressed, and must be somebody of
consequence. ‘I suppose,’ said he, ‘when the poor Lady had taken care
of her child, she went to find some help; and, the night being dark, her
foot slipped, and she fell into the river, and was drowned.’

“‘Lord have mercy!’ said Robin, ‘what shall we do with the dead body?
we may be taken up for the murder; what had we to do to meddle with it?’
‘Ay, but,’ says Andrew, ‘we must have something to do with it now; and
our wisest way is to bury it.’ Robin was sadly frightened, but at last
they agreed to carry it into the wood, and bury it there; so they came
home for a pickaxe and shovel. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘Andrew, but will you
bury all the rich clothes you speak of?’ ‘Why,’ said he, ‘it would be
both a sin and a shame to strip the dead.’ ‘So it would,’ said I; ‘but
I will give you a sheet to wrap the body in, and you may take off her
upper garments, and any thing of value; but do not strip her to the skin
for any thing.’ ‘Well said, wench!’ said he; ‘I will do as you say.’ So
I fetched a sheet, and by that time Robin was come back, and away they
went together.

“They did not come back again till noon, and then they sat down and ate
a morsel together. Says Andrew, ‘Now we may sit down and eat in peace.’
‘Aye,’ says Robin, ‘and sleep in peace too, for we have done no harm.’
‘No, to be sure,’ said I; ‘but yet I am much concerned that the poor
Lady had not Christian burial.’ ‘Never trouble thyself about that,’ said
Andrew; ‘we have done the best we could for her; but let us see what we
have got in our bags; we must divide them.’ So they opened their bags,
and took out a fine gown and a pair of rich shoes; but, besides these,
there was a fine necklace with a golden locket, and a pair of earrings.
Says Andrew, and winked at me, ‘I will have these, and you may take the
rest.’ Robin said, he was satisfied, and so he went his way. When he was
gone, ‘Here, you fool,’ says Andrew, ‘take these, and keep them as safe
as the bud of your eye; If ever young master is found, these will make
our fortune.’”

“And have you them now?” said Oswald.

“Yes, that I have,” answered she; “Andrew would have sold them long ago,
but I always put him off it.”

“Heaven be praised!” said Edmund.

“Hush,” said Oswald, “let us not lose time; proceed, Goody!”

“Nay,” said Margery, “I have not much more to say. We looked every day
to hear some enquiries after the child, but nothing passed, nobody was
missing.”

“Did nobody of note die about that time?” said Oswald.

“Why yes,” said Margery, “the widow Lady Lovel died that same week;
by the same token, Andrew went to the funeral, and brought home a
scutcheon, which I keep unto this day.”

“Very well; go on.”

“My husband behaved well enough to the boy, till such time as he had two
or three children of his own; and then he began to grumble, and say, it
was hard to maintain other folks’ children, when he found it hard enough
to keep his own; I loved the boy quite as well as my own; often and
often have I pacified Andrew, and made him to hope that he should
one day or other be paid for his trouble; but at last he grew out of
patience, and gave over all hopes of that kind.

“As Edmund grew up, he grew sickly and tender, and could not bear hard
labour; and that was another reason why my husband could not bear with
him. ‘If,’ quoth he, ‘the boy could earn his living, I did not care;
but I must bear all the expence.[‘] There came an old pilgrim into our
parts; he was a scholar, and had been a soldier, and he taught Edmund
to read; then he told him histories of wars, and knights, and lords, and
great men; and Edmund took such delight in hearing him, that he would
not take to any thing else.

“To be sure, Edwin was a pleasant companion; he would tell old stories,
and sing old songs, that one could have sat all night to hear him; but,
as I was a saying, Edmund grew more and more fond of reading, and less
of work; however, he would run of errands, and do many handy turns for
the neighbours; and he was so courteous a lad, that people took notice
of him. Andrew once catched him alone reading, and then told him, that
if he did not find some way to earn his bread, he would turn him out of
doors in a very short time; and so he would have done, sure enough, if
my Lord Fitz-Owen had not taken him into his service just in the nick.”

“Very well, Goody,” said Oswald; “you have told your story very well; I
am glad, for Edmund’s sake, that you can do it so properly. But now, can
you keep a secret?”

“Why, an’t please your reverence, I think I have shewed you that I can.”

“But can you keep it from your husband?”

“Aye,” said she, “surely I can; for I dare not tell it him.”

“That is a good security,” said he; “but I must have a better. You must
swear upon this book not to disclose any thing that has passed between
us three, till we desire you to do it. Be assured you will soon be
called upon for this purpose; Edmund’s birth is near the discovery; He
is the son of parents of high degree; and it will be in his power to
make your fortune, when he takes possession of his own.”

“Holy Virgin! what is it you tell me? How you rejoice me to hear, that
what I have so long prayed for will come to pass!”

She took the oath required, saying it after Oswald.

“Now,” said he, “go and fetch the tokens you have mentioned.”

When she was gone, Edmund’s passions, long suppressed, broke out in
tears and exclamations; he kneeled down, and, with his hands clasped
together, returned thanks to Heaven for the discovery. Oswald begged
him to be composed, lest Margery should perceive his agitation,
and misconstrue the cause. She soon returned with the necklace and
ear-rings; They were pearls of great value; and the necklace had a
locket, on which the cypher of Lovel was engraved.

“This,” said Oswald, “is indeed a proof of consequence. Keep it, sir,
for it belongs to you.”

“Must he take it away?” said she.

“Certainly,” returned Oswald; “we can do nothing without it; but if
Andrew should ask for it, you must put him off for the present, and
hereafter he will find his account in it.”

Margery consented reluctantly to part with the jewels; and, after some
further conversation, they took leave of her.

Edmund embraced her affectionately. “I thank you with my whole heart,”
 said he, “for all your goodness to me! Though I confess, I never felt
much regard for your husband, yet for you I had always the tender
affection of a son. You will, I trust, give your evidence in my behalf
when called upon; and I hope it will one day be in my power to reward
your kindness; In that case, I will own you as my foster-mother, and you
shall always be treated as such.”

Margery wept. “The Lord grant it!” said she; “and I pray him to have you
in his holy keeping. Farewell, my dear child!”

Oswald desired them to separate for fear of intrusion; and they returned
to the castle. Margery stood at the door of her cottage, looking every
way to see if the coast was clear.

“Now, Sir,” said Oswald, “I congratulate you as the son of Lord and Lady
Lovel; the proofs are strong and indisputable.”

“To us they are so,” said Edmund; “but how shall we make them so to
others? and what are we to think of the funeral of Lady Lovel?”

“As of a fiction,” said Oswald; “the work of the present lord, to secure
his title and fortune.”

“And what means can we use to dispossess him?” said Edmund; “He is not a
man for a poor youth like me to contend with.”

“Doubt not,” said Oswald, “but Heaven, who has evidently conducted you
by the hand thus far, will complete its own work; for my part, I can
only wonder and adore!”

“Give me your advice then,” said Edmund; “for Heaven assists us by
natural means.”

“It seems to me,” said Oswald, “that your first step must be to make a
friend of some great man, of consequence enough to espouse your cause,
and to get this affair examined into by authority.”

Edmund started, and crossed himself; he suddenly exclaimed, “A friend!
Yes; I have a friend! a powerful one too; one sent by Heaven to be my
protector, but whom I have too long neglected.”

“Who can that be?” said Oswald.

“Who should it be,” said Edmund, “but that good Sir Philip Harclay, the
chosen friend of him, whom I shall from henceforward call my father.”

“‘Tis true indeed,” said Oswald; “and this is a fresh proof of what
I before observed, that Heaven assists you, and will complete its own
work.”

“I think so myself,” said Edmund, “and rely upon its direction. I have
already determined on my future conduct, which I will communicate to
you. My first step shall be to leave the castle; my lord has this day
given me a horse, upon which I purpose to set out this very night,
without the knowledge of any of the family. I will go to Sir Philip
Harclay; I will throw myself at his feet, relate my strange story, and
implore his protection; With him I will consult on the most proper way
of bringing this murderer to public justice; and I will be guided by his
advice and direction in everything.”

“Nothing can be better,” said Oswald, “than what you propose; but give
me leave to offer an addition to your scheme. You shall set off in the
dead of night, as you intend; Joseph and I, will favour your departure
in such a manner as to throw a mystery over the circumstances of it.
Your disappearing at such a time from the haunted apartment will terrify
and confound all the family; they will puzzle themselves in vain to
account for it, and they will be afraid to pry into the secrets of that
place.”

“You say well, and I approve your addition,” replied Edmund. “Suppose,
likewise, there was a letter written in a mysterious manner, and dropt
in my lord’s way, or sent to him afterwards; it would forward our
design, and frighten them away from that apartment.” “That shall be
my care,” said Oswald; “and I will warrant you that they will not find
themselves disposed to inhabit it presently.”

“But how shall I leave my dear friend Mr. William, without a word of
notice of this separation?”

“I have thought of that too,” said Oswald; “and I will so manage, as
to acquaint him with it in such a manner as he shall think out of the
common course of things, and which shall make him wonder and be silent.”

“How will you do that,” said Edmund?

“I will tell you hereafter,” said Oswald; “for here comes old Joseph to
meet us.”

He came, indeed, as fast as his age would permit him. As soon as he
was within hearing, he asked them what news? They related all that had
passed at Twyford’s cottage; he heard them with the greatest eagerness
of attention, and as soon as they came to the great event, “I knew it! I
knew it!” exclaimed Joseph; “I was sure it would prove so! Thank God
for it! But I will be the first to acknowledge my young lord, and I will
live and die his faithful servant!” Here Joseph attempted to kneel to
him, but Edmund prevented him with a warm embrace.

“My friend! my dear friend!” said he, “I cannot suffer a man of your age
to kneel to me; are you not one of my best and truest friends? I
will ever remember your disinterested affection for me; and if heaven
restores me to my rights, it shall be one of my first cares to render
your old age easy and happy.” Joseph wept over him, and it was some time
before he could utter a word.

Oswald gave them both time to recover their emotion, by acquainting
Joseph with Edmund’s scheme for his departure. Joseph wiped his eyes and
spoke. “I have thought,” said he, “of something that will be both agree
 and useful to my dear master. John Wyatt, Sir Philip Harclay’s servant,
is now upon a visit at his father’s; I have heard that he goes home
soon; now he would be both a guide and companion, on the way.”

“That is, indeed, a happy circumstance,” said Edmund; “but how shall we
know certainly the time of his departure?”

“Why, Sir, I will go to him, and enquire; and bring you word directly.”

“Do so,” said Edmund, “and you will oblige me greatly.”

“But, Sir,” said Oswald, “I think it will be best not to let John
Wyatt know who is to be his companion; only let Joseph tell him that a
gentleman is going to visit his master, and, if possible, prevail upon
him to set out this night.”

“Do so, my good friend,” said Edmund; “and tell him, further, that this
person has business of great consequence to communicate to his master,
and cannot delay his journey on any account.”

“I will do this, you may depend,” said Joseph, “and acquaint you with my
success as soon as possible; but, sir, you must not go without a guide,
at any rate.”

“I trust I shall not,” said Edmund, “though I go alone; he that has
received such a call as I have, can want no other, nor fear any danger.”

They conversed on these points till they drew near the castle, when
Joseph left them to go on his errand, and Edmund attended his Lord
at dinner. The Baron observed that he was silent and reserved; the
conversation languished on both sides. As soon as dinner was ended,
Edmund asked permission to go up into his own apartment; where he packed
up some necessaries, and made a hasty preparation for his departure.

Afterwards he walked into the garden, revolving in his mind the
peculiarity of his situation, and the uncertainty of his future
prospects; lost in thought, he walked to and fro in a covered walk, with
his arms crossed and his eyes cast down, without perceiving that he was
observed by two females who stood at a distance watching his motions. It
was the Lady Emma, and her attendant, who were thus engaged. At length,
he lifted up his eyes and saw them; he stood still, and was irresolute
whether to advance or retire. They approached him; and, as they drew
near, fair Emma spoke.

“You have been so wrapt in meditation, Edmund, that I am apprehensive of
some new vexation that I am yet a stranger to. Would it were in my power
to lessen those you have already! But tell me if I guess truly?”

He stood still irresolute, he answered with hesitation. “O, lady--I
am--I am grieved, I am concerned, to be the cause of so much confusion
in this noble family, to which I am so much indebted; I see no way to
lessen these evils but to remove the cause of them.”

“Meaning yourself?” said she.

“Certainly, Madam; and I was meditating on my departure.”

“But,” said she, “by your departure you will not remove the cause.”

“How so, madam?”

“Because you are not the cause, but those you will leave behind you.”

“Lady Emma!”

“How can you affect this ignorance, Edmund? You know well enough it is
that odious Wenlock, your enemy and my aversion, that has caused all
this mischief among us, and will much more, if he is not removed.”

“This, madam, is a subject that it becomes me to be silent upon. Mr.
Wenlock is your kinsman; he is not my friend; and for that reason I
ought not to speak against him, nor you to hear it from me. If he has
used me ill, I am recompensed by the generous treatment of my lord your
father, who is all that is great and good; he has allowed me to justify
myself to him, and he has restored me to his good opinion, which I prize
among the best gifts of heaven. Your amiable brother William thinks well
of me, and his esteem is infinitely dear to me; and you, excellent Lady,
permit me to hope that you honour me with your good opinion. Are not
these ample amends for the ill-will Mr. Wenlock bears me?”

“My opinion of you, Edmund,” said she, “is fixed and settled. It is
not founded upon events of yesterday, but upon long knowledge and
experience; upon your whole conduct and character.”

“You honour me, lady! Continue to think well of me, it will excite me
to deserve it. When I am far distant from this place, the remembrance of
your goodness will be a cordial to my heart.”

“But why will you leave us, Edmund? Stay and defeat the designs of your
enemy; you shall have my wishes and assistance.”

“Pardon me, Madam, that is among the things I cannot do, even if it were
in my power, which it is not. Mr. Wenlock loves you, lady, and if he is
so unhappy as to be your aversion, that is a punishment severe enough.
For the rest, I may be unfortunate by the wickedness of others, but if I
am unworthy, it must be by my own fault.”

“So then you think it is an unworthy action to oppose Mr. Wenlock! Very
well, sir. Then I suppose you wish him success; you wish that I may be
married to him?”

“I, Madam!” said Edmund, confused; “what am I that I should give my
opinion on an affair of so much consequence? You distress me by the
question. May you be happy! may you enjoy your own wishes!”

He sighed, he turned away. She called him back; he trembled, and kept
silence.

She seemed to enjoy his confusion; she was cruel enough to repeat the
question.

“Tell me, Edmund, and truly, do you wish to see me give my hand to
Wenlock? I insist upon your answer.”

All on a sudden he recovered both his voice and courage; he stepped
forward, his person erect, his countenance assured, his voice resolute
and intrepid.

“Since Lady Emma insists upon my answer, since she avows a dislike to
Wenlock, since she condescends to ask my opinion, I will tell her my
thoughts, my wishes.”

The fair Emma now trembled in her turn; she blushed, looked down, and
was ashamed to have spoken so freely.

Edmund went on. “My most ardent wishes are, that the fair Emma may
reserve her heart and hand till a certain person, a friend of mine, is
at liberty to solicit them; whose utmost ambition is, first to deserve,
and then to obtain them.”

“Your friend, Sir!” said Lady Emma! her brow clouded, her eye
disdainful.

Edmund proceeded. “My friend is so particularly circumstanced that he
cannot at present with propriety ask for Lady Emma’s favour; but as soon
as he has gained a cause that is yet in suspence, he will openly declare
his pretensions, and if he is unsuccessful, he will then condemn himself
to eternal silence.”

 Lady Emma knew not what to think of this declaration; she hoped, she
feared, she meditated; but her attention was too strongly excited to
be satisfied without some gratification; After a pause, she pursued the
subject.

“And this friend of yours, sir, of what degree and fortune is he?”

Edmund smiled; but, commanding his emotion, he replied, “His birth is
noble, his degree and fortune uncertain.”

Her countenance fell, she sighed; he proceeded. “It is utterly
impossible,” said he, “for any man of inferior degree to aspire to Lady
Emma’s favour; her noble birth, the dignity of her beauty and virtues,
must awe and keep at their proper distance, all men of inferior degree
and merit; they may admire, they may revere; but they must not presume
to approach too near, lest their presumption should meet with its
punishment.”

“Well, sir,” said she, suddenly; “and so this friend of yours has
commissioned you to speak in his behalf?”

“He has, Madam.”

“Then I must tell you, that I think his assurance is very great, and
yours not much less.”

“I am sorry for that, Madam.”

“Tell him, that I shall reserve my heart and hand for the man to whom my
father shall bid me give them.”

“Very well, Lady; I am certain my lord loves you too well to dispose of
them against your inclination.”

“How do you know that, sir? But tell him, that the man that hopes for my
favour must apply to my lord for his.”

“That is my friend’s intention--his resolution, I should say--as soon as
he can do it with propriety; and I accept your permission for him to do
so.”

“My permission did you say? I am astonished at your assurance! tell me
no more of your friend; But perhaps you are pleading for Wenlock all
this time; It is all one to me; only, say no more.”

“Are you offended with me, madam?”

“No matter, sir.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I am surprised at you, Edmund.”

“I am surprised at my own temerity; but, forgive me.”

“It does not signify; good bye ty’e, sir.”

“Don’t leave me in anger, madam; I cannot bear that. Perhaps I may not
see you again for a long time.”

 He looked afflicted; she turned back.  “I do forgive you, Edmund; I
was concerned for you; but, it seems, you are more concerned for every
body than for yourself.” She sighed; “Farewell!” said she.

Edmund gazed on her with tenderness; he approached her, he just touched
her hand; his heart was rising to his lips, but he recollected his
situation; he checked himself immediately; he retired back, he sighed
deeply, bowed low, and hastily quitted her.

The lady turning into another walk, he reached the house first, and went
up again to his chamber; he threw himself upon his knees; prayed for a
thousand blessings upon every one of the family of his benefactor, and
involuntarily wept at mentioning the name of the charming Emma, whom he
was about to leave abruptly, and perhaps for ever. He then endeavoured
to compose himself, and once more attended the Baron; wished him a good
night; and withdrew to his chamber, till he was called upon to go again
to the haunted apartment.

He came down equipped for his journey, and went hastily for fear of
observation; he paid his customary devotions, and soon after Oswald
tapped at the door. They conferred together upon the interesting subject
that engrossed their attention, until Joseph came to them, who brought
the rest of Edmund’s baggage, and some refreshment for him before he
set out. Edmund promised to give them the earliest information of his
situation and success. At the hour of twelve they heard the same
groans as the night before in the lower apartment; but, being somewhat
familiarized to it, they were not so strongly affected. Oswald crossed
himself, and prayed for the departed soul; he also prayed for Edmund,
and recommended him to the Divine protection. He then arose, and
embraced that young man; who, also, took a tender leave of his friend
Joseph. They then went, with silence and caution, through a long
gallery; they descended the stairs in the same manner; they crossed the
hall in profound silence, and hardly dared to breathe, lest they should
be overheard; they found some difficulty in opening one of the folding
doors, which at last they accomplished; they were again in jeopardy at
the outward gate. At length they conveyed him safely into the stables;
there they again embraced him, and prayed for his prosperity.

He then mounted his horse, and set forward to Wyatt’s cottage; he
hallooed at the door, and was answered from within. In a few minutes
John came out to him.

“What, is it you, Master Edmund?”

“Hush!” said he; “not a word of who I am; I go upon private business,
and would not wish to be known.”

“If you will go forward, sir, I will soon overtake you.” He did so; and
they pursued their journey to the north. In the mean time, Oswald
and Joseph returned in silence into the house; they retired to their
respective apartments without hearing or being heard by any one.

About the dawn of day Oswald intended to lay his packets in the way of
those to whom they were addressed; after much contrivance he determined
to take a bold step, and, if he were discovered, to frame some excuse.
Encouraged by his late success, he went on tip-toe into Master William’s
chamber, placed a letter upon his pillow, and withdrew unheard. Exulting
in his heart, he attempted the Baron’s apartment, but found it fastened
within. Finding this scheme frustrated, he waited till the hour the
Baron was expected down to breakfast, and laid the letter and the key of
the haunted apartment upon the table. Soon after, he saw the Baron
enter the breakfast room; he got out of sight, but staid within call,
preparing himself for a summons. The Baron sat down to breakfast; he saw
a letter directed to himself--he opened it, and to his great surprise,
read as follows:--

“The guardian of the haunted apartment to Baron Fitz-Owen. To thee I
remit the key of my charge, until the right owner shall come, who will
both discover and avenge my wrongs; then, woe be to the guilty!--But
let the innocent rest in peace. In the mean time, let none presume
to explore the secrets of my apartment, lest they suffer for their
temerity.”

The Baron was struck with amazement at the letter. He took up the key,
examined it, then laid it down, and took up the letter; he was in such
confusion of thought, he knew not what to do or say for several minutes.
At length he called his servants about him; the first question he asked
was--

“Where is Edmund?”

“They could not tell.

“Has he been called?”

“Yes, my Lord, but nobody answered, and the key was not in the door.”

“Where is Joseph?”

“Gone into the stables.”

“Where is father Oswald?”

“In his study.”

“Seek him, and desire him to come hither.”

By the time the Baron had read the letter over again, he came.

He had been framing a steady countenance to answer to all
interrogatories. As he came in he attentively observed the Baron, whose
features were in strong agitation; as soon as he saw Oswald, he spoke as
one out of breath.

“Take that key, and read this letter!”

He did so, shrugged up his shoulders, and remained silent.

“Father,” said my lord, “what think you of this letter?”

“It is a very surprising one.”

“The contents are alarming. Where is Edmund?”

“I do not know.”

“Has nobody seen him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Call my sons, my kinsmen, my servants.”

The servants came in.

“Have any of you seen or heard of Edmund?”

“No,” was the answer.

“Father, step upstairs to my sons and kinsmen, and desire them to come
down immediately.”

Oswald withdrew; and went, first, to Mr. William’s chamber.

“My dear sir, you must come to my lord now directly--he has something
extraordinary to communicate to you.”

“And so have I, father--see what I have found upon my pillow!”

“Pray, sir, read it to me before you shew it to any body; my lord
is alarmed too much already, and wants nothing to increase his
consternation.”

William read his letter, while Oswald looked as if he was an utter
stranger to the contents, which were these:--

“Whatever may be heard or seen, let the seal of friendship be upon thy
lips. The peasant Edmund is no more; but there still lives a man who
hopes to acknowledge, and repay, the Lord Fitz-Owen’s generous care
and protection; to return his beloved William’s vowed affection, and to
claim his friendship on terms of equality.”

“What,” said William, “can this mean?”

“It is not easy to say,” replied Oswald.

“Can you tell what is the cause of this alarm?”

“I can tell you nothing, but that my lord desires to see you
directly--pray make haste down; I must go up to your brothers and
kinsmen, nobody knows what to think, or believe.”

Master William went down stairs, and Father Oswald went to the
malcontents. As soon as he entered the outward door of their apartment,
Mr. Wenlock called out. “Here comes the friend--now for some new
proposal!”

“Gentlemen,” said Oswald, “my lord desires your company immediately in
the breakfast parlour.”

“What! to meet your favourite Edmund, I suppose?” said Mr. Wenlock.

“No, sir.”

“What, then, is the matter?” said Sir Robert.

“Something very extraordinary has happened, gentlemen. Edmund is not to
be found--he disappeared from the haunted apartment, the key of which
was conveyed to my lord in a strange manner, with a letter from an
unknown hand; my lord is both surprised and concerned, and wishes to
have your opinion and advice on the occasion.”

“Tell him,” said Sir Robert, “we will wait upon him immediately.”

As Oswald went away, he heard Wenlock say, “So Edmund is gone, it is no
matter how, or whither.”

Another said, “I hope the ghost has taken him out of the way.” The rest
laughed at the conceit, as they followed Oswald down stairs. They found
the Baron, and his son William, commenting upon the key and the letter.
My lord gave them to Sir Robert, who looked on them with marks of
surprise and confusion.

The Baron addressed him--

“Is not this a very strange affair? Son Robert, lay aside your ill
humours, and behave to your father with the respect and affection his
tenderness deserves from you, and give me your advice and opinion on
this alarming subject.”

“My Lord,” said Sir Robert, “I am as much confounded as yourself--I
can give no advice--let my cousins see the letter--let us have their
opinion.”

They read it in turn--they were equally surprised; but when it came into
Wenlock’s hand, he paused and meditated some minutes.

At length--“I am indeed surprised, and still more concerned, to see my
lord and uncle the dupe of an artful contrivance; and, if he will permit
me, I shall endeavour to unriddle it, to the confusion of all that are
concerned in it.”

“Do so, Dick,” said my lord, “and you shall have my thanks for it.”

“This letter,” said he, “I imagine to be the contrivance of Edmund, or
some ingenious friend of his, to conceal some designs they have against
the peace of this family, which has been too often disturbed upon that
rascal’s account.”

“But what end could be proposed by it?” said the Baron.

“Why, one part of the scheme is to cover Edmund’s departure, that is
clear enough; for the rest, we can only guess at it--perhaps he may be
concealed somewhere in that apartment, from whence he may rush out in
the night, and either rob or murder us; or, at least, alarm and terrify
the family.”

The Baron smiled.

“You shoot beyond the mark, sir, and overshoot yourself, as you have
done before now; you shew only your inveteracy against that poor lad,
whom you cannot mention with temper. To what purpose should he shut
himself up there, to be starved?”

“Starved! no, no! he has friends in this house (looking at Oswald), who
will not suffer him to want anything; those who have always magnified
his virtues, and extenuated his faults, will lend a hand to help him in
time of need; and, perhaps, to assist his ingenious contrivances.”

Oswald shrugged up his shoulders, and remained silent.

“This is a strange fancy of yours, Dick,” said my lord; “but I am willing
to pursue it,--first, to discover what you drive at; and, secondly, to
satisfy all that are here present of the truth or falsehood of it, that
they may know what value to set upon your sagacity hereafter. Let us all
go over that apartment together; and let Joseph be called to attend us
thither.”

Oswald offered to call him, but Wenlock stopped him. “No, father,” said
he, “you must stay with us; we want your ghostly counsel and advice;
Joseph shall have no private conference with you.”

“What mean you,” said Oswald, “to insinuate to my lord against me or
Joseph? But your ill-will spares nobody. It will one day be known who is
the disturber of the peace of this family; I wait for that time, and am
silent.”

Joseph came; when he was told whither they were going, he looked hard at
Oswald. Wenlock observed them.

“Lead the way, father,” said he, “and Joseph shall follow us.”

Oswald smiled.

“We will go where Heaven permits us,” said he; “alas! the wisdom of man
can neither hasten, nor retard, its decrees.”

They followed the father up stairs, and went directly to the haunted
apartment. The Baron unlocked the door; he bid Joseph open the shutters,
and admit the daylight, which had been excluded for many years. They
went over the rooms above stairs, and then descended the staircase, and
through the lower rooms in the same manner. However, they overlooked the
closet, in which the fatal secret was concealed; the door was covered
with tapestry, the same as the room, and united so well that it seemed
but one piece. Wenlock tauntingly desired Father Oswald to introduce
them to the ghost. The father, in reply, asked them where they should
find Edmund. “Do you think,” said he, “that he lies hid in my pocket, or
in Joseph’s?”

“‘Tis no matter,” answered he; “thoughts are free.”

“My opinion of you, Sir,” said Oswald, “is not founded upon thoughts--I
judge of men by their actions,--a rule, I believe, it will not suit you
to be tried by.”

“None of your insolent admonitions, father!” returned Wenlock; “this is
neither the time nor the place for them.”


“That is truer than you are aware of, sir; I meant not to enter into the
subject just now.”

“Be silent,” said my Lord.

“I shall enter into this subject with you hereafter--then look you be
prepared for it. In the mean time, do you, Dick Wenlock, answer to my
questions:--Do you think Edmund is concealed in this apartment?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think there is any mystery in it?”

“No, my lord.”

“Is it haunted, think you?”

“No, I think not.”

“Should you be afraid to try?”

“In what manner, my lord?”

“Why, you have shewn your wit upon the subject, and I mean to show your
courage;--you, and Jack Markham your confident, shall sleep here three
nights, as Edmund has done before.”

“Sir,” said Sir Robert, “for what purpose? I should be glad to
understand why.”

“I have my reasons, sir, as well as your kinsmen there. No reply, Sirs!
I insist upon being obeyed in this point. Joseph, let the beds be well
aired, and every thing made agreeable to the gentlemen; If there is any
contrivance to impose upon me, they, I am sure, will have pleasure in
detecting it; and, if not, I shall obtain my end in making these rooms
habitable. Oswald, come with me; and the rest may go where they list
till dinner-time.”

The Baron went with Oswald into the parlour.

“Now tell me, father,” said he, “do you disapprove what I have done?”

“Quite the contrary, my lord,” said he; “I entirely approve it.”

“But you do not know all my reasons for it. Yesterday Edmund’s behaviour
was different from what I have ever seen it--he is naturally frank and
open in all his ways; but he was then silent, thoughtful, absent; he
sighed deeply, and once I saw tears stand in his eyes. Now, I do
suspect there is something uncommon in that apartment--that Edmund has
discovered the secret; and, fearing to disclose it, he is fled away from
the house. As to this letter, perhaps he may have written it to
hint that there is more than he dares reveal; I tremble at the hints
contained in it, though I shall appear to make light of it. But I and
mine are innocent; and if Heaven discloses the guilt of others, I ought
to adore and submit to its decrees.”

“That is prudently and piously resolved, my lord; let us do our duty,
and leave events to Heaven.”

“But, father, I have a further view in obliging my kinsmen to sleep
there:--if any thing should appear to them, it is better that it should
only be known to my own family; if there is nothing in it, I shall put
to the proof the courage and veracity of my two kinsmen, of whom I think
very indifferently. I mean shortly to enquire into many things I have
heard lately to their disadvantage; and, if I find them guilty, they
shall not escape with impunity.”

“My lord,” said Oswald, “you judge like yourself; I wish you to make
enquiry concerning them, and believe the result will be to their
confusion, and your Lordship will be enabled to re-establish the peace
of your family.”

During this conversation, Oswald was upon his guard, lest any thing
should escape that might create suspicion. He withdrew as soon as he
could with decency, and left the Baron meditating what all these things
should mean; he feared there was some misfortune impending over his
house, though he knew not from what cause.

He dined with his children and kinsmen, and strove to appear cheerful;
but a gloom was perceivable through his deportment. Sir Robert was
reserved and respectful; Mr. William was silent and attentive; the rest
of the family dutifully assiduous to my Lord; only Wenlock and Markham
were sullen and chagrined. The Baron detained the young men the whole
afternoon; he strove to amuse and to be amused; he shewed the greatest
affection and parental regard to his children, and endeavoured to
conciliate their affections, and engage their gratitude by kindness.
Wenlock and Markham felt their courage abate as the night approached;
At the hour of nine, old Joseph came to conduct them to the haunted
apartment; they took leave of their kinsmen, and went up stairs with
heavy hearts.

They found the chamber set in order for them, and a table spread with
provision and good liquor to keep up their spirits.

“It seems,” said Wenlock, “that your friend Edmund was obliged to you
for his accommodations here.”

“Sir,” said Joseph, “his accommodations were bad enough the first night;
but, afterwards, they were bettered by my lord’s orders.”

“Owing to your officious cares?” said Wenlock.

“I own it,” said Joseph, “and I am not ashamed of it.”

“Are you not anxious to know what is become of him?” said Markham.

“Not at all, sir; I trust he is in the best protection; so good a young
man as he is, is safe everywhere.”

“You see, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “how this villain has stole the
hearts of my uncle’s servants; I suppose this canting old fellow knows
where he is, if the truth were known.”

“Have you any further commands for me, gentlemen?” said the old man.

“No, not we.”

“Then I am ordered to attend my lord, when you have done with me.”

“Go, then, about your business.”

Joseph went away, glad to be dismissed.

“What shall we do, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “to pass away the
time?--it is plaguy dull sitting here.”

“Dull enough,” said Markham, “I think the best thing we can do, is to go
to bed and sleep it away.”

“Faith!” says Wenlock, “I am in no disposition to sleep. Who would have
thought the old man would have obliged us to spend the night here?”

“Don’t say us, I beg of you; it was all your own doing,” replied
Markham.

“I did not intend he should have taken me at my word.”

“Then you should have spoken more cautiously. I have always been
governed by you, like a fool as I am; you play the braggart, and I
suffer for it; But they begin to see through your fine-spun arts and
contrivances, and I believe you will meet with your deserts one day or
other.”

“What now? do you mean to affront me, Jack? Know, that some are born
to plan, others to execute; I am one of the former, thou of the latter.
Know your friend, or--”

“Or what?” replied Markham; “do you mean to threaten me? If you do!”

“What then?” said Wenlock.

“Why, then, I will try which of us two is the best man, sir!”

Upon this Markham arose, and put himself into a posture of defence.
Wenlock perceiving he was serious in his anger, began to soothe him;
he persuaded, he flattered, he promised great things if he would be
composed. Markham was sullen, uneasy, resentful; whenever he spoke, it
was to upbraid Wenlock with his treachery and falsehood. Wenlock
tried all his eloquence to get him into a good humour, but in vain; he
threatened to acquaint his uncle with all that he knew, and to exculpate
himself at the other’s expence. Wenlock began to find his choler rise;
they were both almost choaked with rage; and, at length, they both rose
with a resolution to fight.

As they stood with their fists clenched, on a sudden they were alarmed
with a dismal groan from the room underneath. They stood like statues
petrified by fear, yet listening with trembling expectation. A second
groan increased their consternation; and, soon after, a third completed
it. They staggered to a seat, and sunk down upon it, ready to faint.
Presently, all the doors flew open, a pale glimmering light appeared at
the door, from the staircase, and a man in complete armour entered the
room. He stood, with one hand extended, pointing to the outward door;
they took the hint, and crawled away as fast as fear would let them;
they staggered along the gallery, and from thence to the Baron’s
apartment, where Wenlock sunk down in a swoon, and Markham had just
strength enough to knock at the door.

The servant who slept in the outward room alarmed his lord.

Markham cried out, “For Heaven’s sake, let us in!”

Upon hearing his voice, the door was opened, and Markham approached
his Uncle in such an attitude of fear, as excited a degree of it in the
Baron. He pointed to Wenlock, who was with some difficulty recovered
from the fit he was fallen into; the servant was terrified, he rung the
alarm-bell; the servants came running from all parts to their Lord’s
apartment; The young gentlemen came likewise, and presently all was
confusion, and the terror was universal. Oswald, who guessed the
business, was the only one that could question them. He asked several
times,

“What is the matter?”

Markham, at last, answered him, “We have seen the ghost!”

All regard to secrecy was now at an end; the echo ran through the whole
family--“They have seen the ghost!”

The Baron desired Oswald to talk to the young men, and endeavour to
quiet the disturbance. He came forward; he comforted some, he rebuked
others; he had the servants retire into the outward room. The Baron,
with his sons and kinsmen, remained in the bed-chamber.

“It is very unfortunate,” said Oswald, “that this affair should be made
so public; surely these young men might have related what they had seen,
without alarming the whole family. I am very much concerned upon my
lord’s account.”

“I thank you, father,” said the Baron; “but prudence was quite
overthrown here. Wenlock was half dead, and Markham half distracted; the
family were alarmed without my being able to prevent it. But let us hear
what these poor terrified creatures say.”

Oswald demanded, “What have you seen, gentlemen?”

“The ghost!” said Markham.

“In what form did it appear?”

“A man in armour.”

“Did it speak to you?”

“No.”

“What did it do to terrify you so much?”

“It stood at the farthest door, and pointed to the outward door, as if
to have us leave the room; we did not wait for a second notice, but came
away as fast as we could.”

“Did it follow you?”

“No.”

“Then you need not have raised such a disturbance.”

Wenlock lifted up his head, and spoke--

“I believe, father, if you had been with us, you would not have stood
upon ceremonies any more than we did. I wish my lord would send you to
parley with the ghost; for, without doubt, you are better qualified than
we.”

“My Lord,” said Oswald, “I will go thither, with your permission; I will
see that every thing is safe, and bring the key back to you; Perhaps
this may help to dispel the fears that have been raised--at least, I
will try to do it.”

“I thank you, father, for your good offices--do as you please.”

Oswald went into the outward room. “I am going,” said he, “to shut up
the apartment. The young gentlemen have been more frightened than they
had occasion for; I will try to account for it. Which of you will go
with me?”

They all drew back, except Joseph, who offered to bear him company. They
went into the bedroom in the haunted apartment, and found every thing
quiet there. They put out the fire, extinguished the lights, locked
the door, and brought away the key. As they returned, “I thought how it
would be,” said Joseph.

“Hush! not a word,” said Oswald; “you find we are suspected of
something, though they know not what. Wait till you are called upon, and
then we will both speak to purpose.” They carried the key to the Baron.

“All is quiet in the apartment,” said Oswald, “as we can testify.”

“Did you ask Joseph to go with you,” said the Baron, “or did he offer
himself?”

“My Lord, I asked if any body would go with me, and they all declined it
but he; I thought proper to have a witness beside myself, for whatever
might be seen or heard.”

“Joseph, you were servant to the late Lord Lovel; what kind of man was
he?”

“A very comely man, please your lordship.”

“Should you know him if you were to see him?”

“I cannot say, my lord.”

“Would you have any objection to sleep a night in that apartment?”

“I beg,”--“I hope,”--“I beseech your lordship not to command me to
do it!”

“You are then afraid; why did you offer yourself to go thither?”

“Because I was not so much frightened as the rest.”

“I wish you would lie a night there; but I do not insist upon it.”

“My lord, I am a poor ignorant old man, not fit for such an undertaking;
beside, if I should see the ghost, and if it should be the person of my
master, and if it should tell me any thing, and bid me keep it secret, I
should not dare to disclose it; and then, what service should I do your
lordship?”

“That is true, indeed,” said the Baron.

“This speech,” said Sir Robert, “is both a simple and an artful one. You
see, however, that Joseph is not a man for us to depend upon; he regards
the Lord Lovel, though dead, more than Lord Fitz-Owen, living; he calls
him his master, and promises to keep his secrets. What say you, father,
Is the ghost your master, or your friend? Are you under any obligation
to keep his secrets?”

“Sir,” said Oswald, “I answer as Joseph does; I would sooner die than
discover a secret revealed in that manner.”

“I thought as much,” said Sir Robert; “there is a mystery in Father
Oswald’s behaviour, that I cannot comprehend.”

“Do not reflect upon the father,” said the Baron; “I have no cause to
complain of him; perhaps the mystery may be too soon explained; but let
us not anticipate evils. Oswald and Joseph have spoken like good men;
I am satisfied with their answers; let us, who are innocent, rest in
peace; and let us endeavour to restore peace in the family; and do you,
father, assist us.”

“With my best services,” said Oswald. He called the servants in. “Let
nothing be mentioned out of doors,” said he, “of what has lately passed
within, especially in the east apartment; the young gentlemen had not so
much reason to be frightened as they apprehended; a piece of furniture
fell down in the rooms underneath, which made the noise that alarmed
them so much; but I can certify that all things in the rooms are in
quiet, and there is nothing to fear. All of you attend me in the chapel
in an hour; do your duties, put your trust in God, and obey your Lord,
and you will find every thing go right as it used to do.”

They dispersed; the sun rose, the day came on, and every thing went on
in the usual course; but the servants were not so easily satisfied; they
whispered that something was wrong, and expected the time that should
set all right. The mind of the Baron was employed in meditating upon
these circumstances, that seemed to him the forerunners of some great
events; he sometimes thought of Edmund; he sighed for his expulsion, and
lamented the uncertainty of his fate; but, to his family, he appeared
easy and satisfied.

From the time of Edmund’s departure, the fair Emma had many uneasy
hours; she wished to enquire after him, but feared to shew any
solicitude concerning him. The next day, when her brother William came
into her apartment, she took courage to ask a question.

“Pray, brother, can you give any guess what is become of Edmund?”

“No,” said he, with a sigh; “why do you ask me?”

“Because, my dear William, I should think if any body knew, it must be
you; and I thought he loved you too well to leave you in ignorance. But
don’t you think he left the castle in a very strange manner?”

“I do, my dear; there is a mystery in every circumstance of his
departure; Nevertheless (I will trust you with a secret), he did not
leave the castle without making a distinction in my favour.”

“I thought so,” said she; “but you might tell me what you know about
him.”

“Alas, my dear Emma! I know nothing. When I saw him last, he seemed
a good deal affected, as if he were taking leave of me; and I had a
foreboding that we parted for a longer time than usual.”

“Ah! so had I,” said she, “when he parted from me in the garden.”

“What leave did he take of you, Emma?”

She blushed, and hesitated to tell him all that passed between them;
but he begged, persuaded, insisted; and, at length, under the strongest
injunctions of secrecy, she told him all.

He said, “That Edmund’s behaviour on that occasion was as mysterious
as the rest of his conduct; but, now you have revealed your secret, you
have a right to know mine.”

He then gave her the letter he found upon his pillow; she read it with
great emotion.

“Saint Winifred assist me!” said she; “what can I think? ‘The peasant
Edmund is no more, but there lives one,’--that is to my thinking, Edmund
lives, but is no peasant.”

“Go on, my dear,” said William; “I like your explanation.”

“Nay, brother, I only guess; but what think you?”

“I believe we think alike in more than one respect, that he meant to
recommend no other person than himself to your favour; and, if he were
indeed of noble birth, I would prefer him to a prince for a husband to
my Emma!”

“Bless me!” said she, “do you think it possible that he should be of
either birth or fortune?”

“It is hard to say what is impossible! we have proof that the east
apartment is haunted. It was there that Edmund was made acquainted with
many secrets, I doubt not: and, perhaps, his own fate may be involved in
that of others. I am confident that what he saw and heard there, was the
cause of his departure. We must wait with patience the unravelling this
intricate affair; I believe I need not enjoin your secrecy as to what I
have said; your heart will be my security.”

“What mean you, brother?”

“Don’t affect ignorance, my dear; you love Edmund, so do I; it is
nothing to be ashamed of. It would have been strange, if a girl of your
good sense had not distinguished a swan among a flock of geese.”

“Dear William, don’t let a word of this escape you; but you have taken
a weight off my heart. You may depend that I will not dispose of my hand
or heart till I know the end of this affair.”

William smiled: “Keep them for Edmund’s friend; I shall rejoice to see
him in a situation to ask them.”

“Hush, my brother! not a word more; I hear footsteps.”

They were her eldest brother’s, who came to ask Mr. William to ride out
with him, which finished the conference.

The fair Emma from this time assumed an air of satisfaction; and William
frequently stole away from his companions to talk with his sister upon
their favourite subject.

While these things passed at the castle of Lovel, Edmund and his
companion John Wyatt proceeded on their journey to Sir Philip Harclay’s
seat; they conversed together on the way, and Edmund found him a man of
understanding, though not improved by education; he also discovered that
John loved his master, and respected him even to veneration; from him he
learned many particulars concerning that worthy knight. Wyatt told him,
“That Sir Philip maintained twelve old soldiers who had been maimed and
disabled in the wars, and had no provision made for them; also six
old officers, who had been unfortunate, and were grown grey without
preferment; he likewise mentioned the Greek gentleman, his master’s
captive and friend, as a man eminent for valour and piety; but, beside
these,” said Wyatt, “there are many others who eat of my master’s bread
and drink of his cup, and who join in blessings and prayers to Heaven
for their noble benefactor; his ears are ever open to distress, his hand
to relieve it, and he shares in every good man’s joys and blessings.”

“Oh, what a glorious character!” said Edmund; “how my heart throbs with
wishes to imitate such a man! Oh, that I might resemble him, though at
ever so great a distance!”

Edmund was never weary of hearing the actions of this truly great man,
nor Wyatt with relating them; and, during three days journey, there were
but few pauses in their conversation.

The fourth day, when they came within view of the house, Edmund’s heart
began to raise doubts of his reception. “If,” said he, “Sir Philip
should not receive me kindly, if he should resent my long neglect, and
disown my acquaintance, it would be no more than justice.”

He sent Wyatt before, to notify his arrival to Sir Philip, while
he waited at the gate, full of doubts and anxieties concerning his
reception. Wyatt was met and congratulated on his return by most of his
fellow-servants. He asked--

“Where is my master?”

“In the parlour.”

“Are any strangers with him?”

“No, only his own family.”

“Then I will shew myself to him.”

He presented himself before Sir Philip.

“So, John,” said he, “you are welcome home! I hope you left your parents
and relations well?”

“All well, thank God! and send their humble duty to your honour, and
they pray for you every day of their lives. I hope your honour is in
good health.”

“Very well.”

“Thank God for that! but, sir, I have something further to tell you;
I have had a companion all the way home, a person who comes to wait on
your honour, on business of great consequence, as he says.”

“Who is that, John?”

“It is Master Edmund Twyford, from the castle of Lovel.”

“Young Edmund!” says Sir Philip, surprised; “where is he?”

“At the gate, sir.”

“Why did you leave him there?”

“Because he bade me come before, and acquaint your honour, that he waits
your pleasure.”

“Bring him hither,” said Sir Philip; “tell him I shall be glad to see
him.”

John made haste to deliver his message, and Edmund followed him in
silence into Sir Philip’s presence.

He bowed low, and kept at a distance. Sir Philip held out his hand,
and bad him approach. As he drew near, he was seized with an universal
trembling; he kneeled down, took his hand, kissed it, and pressed it to
his heart in silence.

“You are welcome, young man!” said Sir Philip; “take courage, and speak
for yourself.”

Edmund sighed deeply; he at length broke silence with difficulty. “I am
come thus far, noble sir, to throw myself at your feet, and implore your
protection. You are, under God, my only reliance.”

“I receive you,” said Sir Philip, “with all my heart! Your person is
greatly improved since I saw you last, and I hope your mind is equally
so; I have heard a great character of you from some that knew you in
France. I remember the promise I made you long ago, and am ready now
to fulfil it, upon condition that you have done nothing to disgrace the
good opinion I formerly entertained of you; and am ready to serve you in
any thing consistent with my own honour.”

Edmund kissed the hand that was extended to raise him. “I accept your
favour, sir, upon this condition only; and if ever you find me to impose
upon your credulity, or incroach on your goodness, may you renounce me
from that moment!”

“Enough,” said Sir Philip; “rise, then, and let me embrace you; You are
truly welcome!”

“Oh, noble sir!” said Edmund, “I have a strange story to tell you; but
it must be by ourselves, with only heaven to bear witness to what passes
between us.”

“Very well,” said Sir Philip; “I am ready to hear you; but first, go and
get some refreshment after your journey, and then come to me again. John
Wyatt will attend you.”

“I want no refreshment,” said Edmund; “and I cannot eat or drink till I
have told my business to your honour.”

“Well then,” said Sir Philip, “come along with me.” He took the youth by
the hand, and led him into another parlour, leaving his friends in great
surprise, what this young man’s errand could be; John Wyatt told them
all that he knew relating to Edmund’s birth, character, and situation.

When Sir Philip had seated his young friend, he listened in silence to
the surprising tale he had to tell him. Edmund told him briefly the most
remarkable circumstances of his life, from the time when he first
saw and liked him, till his return from France; but from that era,
he related at large every thing that had happened, recounting every
interesting particular, which was imprinted on his memory in strong and
lasting characters. Sir Philip grew every moment more affected by the
recital; sometimes he clasped his hands together, he lifted them up to
heaven, he smote his breast, he sighed, he exclaimed aloud; when Edmund
related his dream, he breathed short, and seemed to devour him with
attention; when he described the fatal closet, he trembled, sighed,
sobbed, and was almost suffocated with his agitation. But when he
related all that passed between his supposed mother and himself, and
finally produced the jewels, the proofs of his birth, and the death of
his unfortunate mother, he flew to him, he pressed him to his bosom, he
strove to speak, but speech was for some minutes denied. He wept aloud;
and, at length, his words found their way in broken exclamations.

“Son of my dearest friend! Dear and precious relic of a noble house!
child of Providence! the beloved of heaven! welcome! thrice welcome to
my arms! to my heart! I will be thy parent from henceforward, and thou
shalt be indeed my child, my heir! My mind told me from the first moment
I beheld thee, that thou wert the image of my friend! my heart then
opened itself to receive thee, as his offspring. I had a strange
foreboding that I was to be thy protector. I would then have made
thee my own; but heaven orders things for the best; it made thee the
instrument of this discovery, and in its own time and manner conducted
thee to my arms. Praise be to God for his wonderful doings towards the
children of men! every thing that has befallen thee is by his direction,
and he will not leave his work unfinished; I trust that I shall be his
instrument to do justice on the guilty, and to restore the orphan of
my friend to his rights and title. I devote myself to this service, and
will make it the business of my life to effect it.”

Edmund gave vent to his emotions, in raptures of joy and gratitude.
They spent several hours in this way, without thinking of the time that
passed; the one enquiring, the other explaining, and repeating, every
particular of the interesting story.

At length they were interrupted by the careful John Wyatt, who was
anxious to know if any thing was likely to give trouble to his master.

“Sir,” said John, “it grows dark--do you want a light?”

“We want no light but what heaven gives us,” said Sir Philip; “I knew
not whether it was dark or light.”

“I hope,” said John, “nothing has happened, I hope your honour has heard
no bad tidings; I--I--I hope no offence.”

“None at all,” said the good knight; “I am obliged to your solicitude
for me; I have heard some things that grieve me, and others that give me
great pleasure; but the sorrows are past, and the joys remain.”

“Thank God!” said John; “I was afraid something was the matter to give
your honour trouble.”

“I thank you, my good servant! You see this young gentleman; I would
have you, John, devote yourself to his service; I give you to him for an
attendant on his person, and would have you show your affection to me by
your attachment to him.”

“Oh, Sir!” said John in a melancholy voice, “what have I done to be
turned out of your service?”

“No such matter, John,” said Sir Philip; “you will not leave my
service.”

“Sir,” said John, “I would rather die than leave you.”

“And, my lad, I like you too well to part with you; but in serving my
friend you will serve me. Know, that this young man is my son.”

“Your son, sir!” said John.

“Not my natural son, but my relation; my son by adoption, my heir!”

“And will he live with you, sir?”

“Yes, John; and I hope to die with him.”

“Oh, then, I will serve him with all my heart and soul; and I will do my
best to please you both.”

“I thank you, John, and I will not forget your honest love and duty.
I have so good an opinion of you, that I will tell you of some things
concerning this gentleman that will entitle him to your respect.”

“‘Tis enough for me,” said John, “to know that your honour respects him,
to make me pay him as much duty as yourself.”

“But, John, when you know him better, you will respect him still more;
at present, I shall only tell you what he is not; for you think him only
the son of Andrew Twyford.”

“And is he not?” said John.

“No, but his wife nursed him, and he passed for her son.”

“And does old Twyford know it, sir?”

“He does, and will bear witness to it; but he is the son of a near
friend of mine, of quality superior to my own, and as such you must
serve and respect him.”

“I shall, to be sure, sir; but what name shall I call him?”

“You shall know that hereafter; in the mean time bring a light, and wait
on us to the other parlour.”

When John was withdrawn, Sir Philip said, “That is a point to be
considered and determined immediately; It is proper that you should
assume a name till you can take that of your father; for I choose you
should drop that of your foster-father; and I would have you be called
by one that is respectable.”

“In that, and every other point, I will be wholly governed by you, sir,”
 said Edmund.

“Well then, I will give you the name of Seagrave; I shall say that you
are a relation of my own; and my mother was really of that family.”

John soon returned, and attended them into the other parlour; Sir Philip
entered, with Edmund in his hand.


“My friends,” said he, “this gentleman is Mr. Edward Seagrave, the
son of a dear friend and relation of mine. He was lost in his infancy,
brought up by a good woman out of pure humanity, and is but lately
restored to his own family. The circumstances shall be made known
hereafter; In the meantime, I have taken him under my care and
protection, and will use all my power and interest to see him restored
to his fortune, which is enjoyed by the usurper who was the cause of his
expulsion, and the death of his parents. Receive him as my relation,
and friend; Zadisky, do you embrace him first. Edmund, you and this
gentleman must love each other for my sake; hereafter you will do it for
your own.[”] They all rose; each embraced and congratulated the young
man.

Zadisky said, “Sir, whatever griefs and misfortunes you may have
endured, you may reckon them at an end, from the hour you are beloved
and protected by Sir Philip Harclay.”

“I firmly believe it, sir,” replied Edmund; “and my heart enjoys,
already, more happiness than I ever yet felt, and promises me all that I
can wish in future; his friendship is the earnest Heaven gives me of its
blessings hereafter.”

They sat down to supper with mutual cheerfulness; and Edmund enjoyed the
repast with more satisfaction than he had felt a long time. Sir Philip
saw his countenance brighten up, and looked on him with heart-felt
pleasure.

“Every time I look on you,” said he, “reminds me of your father; you
are the same person I loved twenty-three years ago--I rejoice to see you
under my roof. Go to your repose early, and to-morrow we will consult
farther.”

Edmund withdrew, and enjoyed a night of sweet undisturbed repose.

The next morning Edmund arose in perfect health and spirits: he waited
on his benefactor. They were soon after joined by Zadisky, who shewed
great attention and respect to the youth, and offered him his best
services without reserve. Edmund accepted them with equal respect and
modesty; and finding himself at ease, began to display his amiable
qualities. They breakfasted together; afterwards, Sir Philip desired
Edmund to walk out with him.

As soon as they were out of hearing, Sir Philip said, “I could not sleep
last night for thinking of your affairs; I laid schemes for you, and
rejected them again. We must lay our plan before we begin to act. What
shall be done with this treacherous kinsman! this inhuman monster! this
assassin of his nearest relation? I will risk my life and fortune to
bring him to justice. Shall I go to court, and demand justice of the
king? or shall I accuse him of the murder, and make him stand a public
trial? If I treat him as a baron of the realm, he must be tried by his
peers; if as a commoner, he must be tried at the county assize; but we
must shew reason why he should be degraded from his title. Have you any
thing to propose?”

“Nothing, sir; I have only to wish that it might be as private as
possible, for the sake of my noble benefactor, the Lord Fitz-Owen, upon
whom some part of the family disgrace would naturally fall; and that
would be an ill return for all his kindness and generosity to me.”

“That is a generous and grateful consideration on your part; but you owe
still more to the memory of your injured parents. However, there is
yet another way that suits me better than any hitherto proposed; I will
challenge the traitor to meet me in the field; and, if he has spirit
enough to answer my call, I will there bring him to justice; if not, I
will bring him to a public trial.”

“No, sir,” said Edmund, “that is my province. Should I stand by and see
my noble, gallant friend expose his life for me, I should be unworthy to
bear the name of that friend whom you so much lament. It will become
his son to vindicate his name, and revenge his death. I will be the
challenger, and no other.”

“And do you think he will answer the challenge of an unknown youth, with
nothing but his pretensions to his name and title? Certainly not. Leave
this matter to me; I will think of a way that will oblige him to meet me at
the house of a third person who is known to all the parties concerned,
and where we will have authentic witnesses of all that passes between
him and me. I will devise the time, place, and manner, and satisfy all
your scruples.”

Edmund offered to reply; but Sir Philip bad him be silent, and let him
proceed in his own way.

He then led him over his estate, and shewed him every thing deserving
his notice; he told him all the particulars of his domestic economy, and
they returned home in time to meet their friends at dinner.

They spent several days in consulting how to bring Sir Walter to
account, and in improving their friendship and confidence in each
other. Edmund endeared himself so much to his friend and patron, that
he declared him his adopted son and heir before all his friends and
servants, and ordered them to respect him as such. He every day improved
their love and regard for him, and became the darling of the whole
family.

After much consideration, Sir Philip fixed his resolutions, and began
to execute his purposes. He set out for the seat of the Lord Clifford,
attended by Edmund, M. Zadisky, and two servants. Lord Clifford received
them with kindness and hospitality.

Sir Philip presented Edmund to Lord Clifford and his family, as his near
relation and presumptive heir; They spent the evening in the pleasures
of convivial mirth and hospitable entertainment. The next day Sir Philip
began to open his mind to Lord Clifford, informing him that both his
young friend and himself had received great injuries from the present
Lord Lovel, for which they were resolved to call him to account; but
that, for many reasons, they were desirous to have proper witnesses
of all that should pass between them, and begging the favour of his
Lordship to be the principal one. Lord Clifford acknowledged the
confidence placed in him; and besought Sir Philip to let him be the
arbitrator between them. Sir Philip assured him, that their wrongs would
not admit of arbitration, as he should hereafter judge; but that he was
unwilling to explain them further till he knew certainly whether or not
the Lord Lovel would meet him; for, if he refused, he must take another
method with him.

Lord Clifford was desirous to know the grounds of the quarrel; but Sir
Philip declined entering into particulars at present, assuring him of
a full information hereafter. He then sent M. Zadisky, attended by John
Wyatt, and a servant of Lord Clifford, with a letter to Lord Lovel; the
contents were as follow:--

“My Lord Lovel,--Sir Philip Harclay earnestly desires to see you at the
house of Lord Clifford, where he waits to call you to account for the
injuries done by you to the late Arthur Lord Lovel, your kinsman; If you
accept his demand, he will make the Lord Clifford a witness and a judge
of the cause; if not, he will expose you publicly as a traitor and a
coward. Please to answer this letter, and he will acquaint you with the
time, place, and manner of the meeting.

“PHILIP HARCLAY.”


Zadisky presented the letter to Lord Lovel, informing him that he was
the friend of Sir Philip Harclay. He seemed surprised and confounded at
the contents; but, putting on an haughty air, “I know nothing,” said
he, “of the business this letter hints at; but wait a few hours, and I
will give you an answer.” He gave orders to treat Zadisky as a gentleman
in every respect, except in avoiding his company; for the Greek had
a shrewd and penetrating aspect, and he observed every turn of his
countenance. The next day he came and apologized for his absence, and
gave him the answer; sending his respects to the Lord Clifford. The
messengers returned with all speed, and Sir Philip read the answer
before all present.


“Lord Lovel knows not of any injuries done by him to the late Arthur
Lord Lovel, whom he succeeded by just right of inheritance; nor of any
right Sir Philip Harclay has, to call to account a man to whom he is
barely known, having seen him only once, many years ago, at the house of
his uncle, the old Lord Lovel: Nevertheless, Lord Lovel will not suffer
any man to call his name and honour into question with impunity; for
which reason he will meet Sir Philip Harclay at any time, place, and in
what manner he shall appoint, bringing the same number of friends and
dependents, that justice may be done to all parties.

“LOVEL.”


“‘Tis well,” said Sir Philip; “I am glad to find he has the spirit to
meet me; he is an enemy worthy of my sword.”

Lord Clifford then proposed that both parties should pass the borders,
and obtain leave of the warden of the Scottish marches to decide the
quarrel in his jurisdiction, with a select number of friends on both
sides. Sir Philip agreed to the proposal; and Lord Clifford wrote in his
own name to ask permission of the Lord Graham, that his friends might
come there; and obtained it, on condition that neither party should
exceed a limited number of friends and followers.

Lord Clifford sent chosen messengers to Lord Lovel, acquainting him
with the conditions, and appointing the time, place, and manner of their
meeting, and that he had been desired to accept the office of judge of
the field. Lord Lovel accepted the conditions, and promised to be there
without fail. Lord Clifford notified the same to Lord Graham, warden of
the marches, who caused a piece of ground to be inclosed for the lists,
and made preparations against the day appointed.

In the interim, Sir Philip Harclay thought proper to settle his worldly
affairs. He made Zadisky acquainted with every circumstance of Edmund’s
history, and the obligation that lay upon him to revenge the death of
his friend, and see justice done to his heir. Zadisky entered into the
cause with an ardour that spoke the affection he bore to his friend.

“Why,” said he, “would you not suffer me to engage this traitor? Your
life is of too much consequence to be staked against his; but though
I trust that the justice of your cause must succeed, yet, if it should
happen otherwise, I vow to revenge you; he shall never go back from us
both. However, my hope and trust is, to see your arm the minister of
justice.”

 Sir Philip then sent for a lawyer and made his will, by which he
appointed Edmund his chief heir, by the name of Lovel, alias Seagrave,
alias Twyford; he ordered that all his old friends, soldiers, and
servants, should be maintained in the same manner during their lives;
he left to Zadisky an annuity of an hundred a year, and a legacy of two
hundred pounds; one hundred pounds to a certain monastery; the same sum
to be distributed among disbanded soldiers, and the same to the poor and
needy in his neighbourhood.

He appointed Lord Clifford joint executor with Edmund, and gave his
will into that nobleman’s care, recommending Edmund to his favour and
protection.

“If I live,” said he, “I will make him appear to be worthy of it; if I
die, he will want a friend. I am desirous your lordship, as a judge of
the field, should be unprejudiced on either side, that you may judge
impartially. If I die, Edmund’s pretensions die with me; but my friend
Zadisky will acquaint you with the foundation of them. I take these
precautions, because I ought to be prepared for every thing; but my
heart is warm with better hopes, and I trust I shall live to justify
my own cause, as well as that of my friend, who is a person of more
consequence than he appears to be.”

Lord Clifford accepted the trust, and expressed the greatest reliance
upon Sir Philip’s honour and veracity.

While these preparations were making for the great event that was to
decide the pretensions of Edmund, his enemies at the Castle of Lovel
were brought to shame for their behaviour to him.

The disagreement between Wenlock and Markham had by degrees brought on
an explanation of some parts of their conduct. Father Oswald had often
hinted to the Baron, Wenlock’s envy of Edmund’s superior qualities,
and the artifices by which he had obtained such an influence with Sir
Robert, as to make him take his part upon all occasions. Oswald now
took advantage of the breach between these two incendiaries, to persuade
Markham to justify himself at Wenlock’s expence, and to tell all he
knew of his wickedness; at length, he promised to declare all he knew
of Wenlock’s conduct, as well in France as since their return, when he
should be called upon; and, by him, Oswald was enabled to unravel the
whole of his contrivances, against the honour, interest, and even life
of Edmund.

He prevailed on Hewson, and Kemp, his associate, to add their testimony
to the others. Hewson confessed that he was touched in his conscience,
when he reflected on the cruelty and injustice of his behaviour to
Edmund, whose behaviour towards him, after he had laid a snare for his
life, was so noble and generous, that he was cut to the heart by it,
and had suffered so much pain and remorse, that he longed for nothing
so much as an opportunity to unburden his mind; but the dread of Mr.
Wenlock’s anger, and the effects of his resentment, had hitherto kept
him silent, always hoping there would come a time, when he might have
leave to declare the whole truth.

Oswald conveyed this information to the Baron’s ear, who waited for
an opportunity to make the proper use of it. Not long after, the two
principal incendiaries came to an open rupture, and Markham threatened
Wenlock that he would shew his uncle what a serpent he had harboured in
his bosom. The Baron arrested his words, and insisted upon his telling
all he knew; adding,--

“If you speak the truth, I will support you; but if you prove false, I
will punish you severely. As to Mr. Wenlock, he shall have a fair trial;
and, if all the accusations I have heard are made good, it is high time
that I should put him out of my family.”

The Baron, with a stern aspect, bade them follow him into the great
hall; and sent for all the rest of the family together.

He then, with great solemnity, told them he was ready to hear all sides
of the question. He declared the whole substance of his informations,
and called upon the accusers to support the charge. Hewson and Kemp gave
the same account they had done to Oswald, offering to swear to the
truth of their testimony; several of the other servants related such
circumstances as had come to their knowledge. Markham then spoke of
every thing, and gave a particular account of all that had passed on
the night they spent in the east apartment; he accused himself of being
privy to Wenlock’s villany, called himself fool and blockhead for being
the instrument of his malignant disposition, and asked pardon of his
uncle for concealing it so long.

The Baron called upon Wenlock to reply to the charge; who, instead of
answering, flew into a passion, raged, swore, threatened, and finally
denied every thing. The witnesses persisted in their assertions. Markham
desired leave to make known the reason why they were all afraid of him.

“He gives it out,” said he, “that he is to be my lord’s son-in-law;
and they, supposing him to stand first in his favour, are afraid of his
displeasure.”

“I hope,” said the Baron, “I shall not be at such a loss for a
son-in-law, as to make choice of such a one as him; he never but once
hinted at such a thing, and then I gave him no encouragement. I have
long seen there was something very wrong in him; but I did not believe
he was of so wicked a disposition; It is no wonder that princes should
be so frequently deceived, when I, a private man, could be so much
imposed upon within the circle of my own family. What think you, son
Robert?”

“I, sir, have been much more imposed on; and I take shame to myself on
the occasion.”

“Enough, my son,” said the Baron; “a generous confession is only a proof
of growing wisdom. You are now sensible, that the best of us are liable
to imposition. The artifices of this unworthy kinsman have set us at
variance with each other, and driven away an excellent youth from this
house, to go I know not whither; but he shall no longer triumph in his
wickedness; he shall feel what it is to be banished from the house of
his protector. He shall set out for his mother’s this very day; I will
write to her in such a manner as shall inform her that he has offended
me, without particularising the nature of his faults; I will give him an
opportunity of recovering his credit with his own family, and this shall
be my security against his doing further mischief. May he repent, and be
forgiven.

“Markham deserves punishment, but not in the same degree.”

“I confess it,” said he, “and will submit to whatever your lordship
shall enjoin.”

“You shall only be banished for a time, but he for ever. I will send
you abroad on a business that shall put you in a way to do credit to
yourself, and service to me. Son Robert, have you any objection to my
sentence?”

“My Lord,” said he, “I have great reason to distrust myself; I am
sensible of my own weakness, and your superior wisdom, as well as
goodness; and I will henceforward submit to you in all things.”

The Baron ordered two of his servants to pack up Wenlock’s clothes and
necessaries, and to set out with him that very day; he bade some others
keep an eye upon him lest he should escape; As soon as they were ready,
my Lord wished him a good journey, and gave him a letter for his mother.
He departed without saying a word, in a sullen kind of resentment, but
his countenance shewed the inward agitations of his mind.

As soon as he was gone, every mouth was opened against him; a thousand
stories came out that they never heard before; The Baron and his sons
were astonished that he should go on so long without detection. My lord
sighed deeply at the thoughts of Edmund’s expulsion, and ardently wished
to know what was become of him.


Sir Robert took the opportunity of coming to an explanation with his
brother William; he took shame to himself for some part of his past
behaviour. Mr. William owned his affection to Edmund, and justified it
by his merit and attachment to him, which were such that he was
certain no time or distance could alter them. He accepted his brother’s
acknowledgement, as a full amends for all that had passed, and begged
that henceforward an entire love and confidence might ever subsist
between them. These new regulations restored peace, confidence, and
harmony, in the Castle of Lovel.

At length, the day arrived for the combatants to meet. The Lord Graham,
with twelve followers gentlemen, and twelve servants, was ready at the
dawn of day to receive them.

The first that entered the field, was Sir Philip Harclay, knight, armed
completely, excepting his head-piece; Hugh Rugby, his esquire, bearing
his lance; John Barnard, his page, carrying his helmet and spurs; and
two servants in his proper livery. The next came Edmund, the heir of
Lovel, followed by his servant John Wyatt; Zadisky, followed by his
servant.


At a short distance came the Lord Clifford, as judge of the field, with
his esquire, two pages, and two livery-servants; followed by his eldest
son, his nephew, and a gentleman his friend, each attended by one
servant; He also brought a surgeon of note to take care of the wounded.


The Lord Graham saluted them; and, by his order, they took their places
without the lists, and the trumpet sounded for the challenger. It was
answered by the defendant, who soon after appeared, attended by three
gentlemen his friends, with each one servant, beside his own proper
attendants.

A place was erected for the Lord Clifford, as judge of the field;
he desired Lord Graham would share the office, who accepted it, on
condition that the combatants should make no objection, and they agreed
to it with the greatest courtesy and respect. They consulted together on
many points of honour and ceremony between the two combatants.

They appointed a marshal of the field, and other inferior officers,
usually employed on these occasions. The Lord Graham sent the marshal
for the challenger, desiring him to declare the cause of his quarrel
before his enemy. Sir Philip Harclay then advanced, and thus spoke:

“I, Philip Harclay, knight, challenge Walter, commonly called Lord
Lovel, as a base, treacherous, and bloody man, who, by his wicked arts
and devices, did kill, or cause to be killed, his kinsman, Arthur Lord
Lovel, my dear and noble friend. I am called upon, in an extraordinary
manner, to revenge his death; and I will prove the truth of what I have
affirmed at the peril of my life.”

Lord Graham then bade the defendant answer to the charge. Lord Lovel
stood forth before his followers, and thus replied:

“I, Walter, Baron of Lovel, do deny the charge against me, and affirm
it to be a base, false, and malicious accusation of this Sir Philip
Harclay, which I believe to be invented by himself, or else framed by
some enemy, and told to him for wicked ends; but, be that as it may, I
will maintain my own honour, and prove him to be a false traitor, at the
hazard of my own life, and to the punishment of his presumption.”

Then said the Lord Graham, “will not this quarrel admit of arbitration?”

“No,” replied Sir Philip; “when I have justified this charge, I have
more to bring against him. I trust in God and the justice of my cause,
and defy that traitor to the death!”

Lord Clifford then spoke a few words to Lord Graham, who immediately
called to the marshal, and bade him open the lists, and deliver their
weapons to the combatants.

While the marshal was arranging the combatants and their followers,
Edmund approached his friend and patron; he put one knee to the ground,
he embraced his knees with the strongest emotions of grief and anxiety.
He was dressed in complete armour, with his visor down; his device was
a hawthorn, with a graft of the rose upon it, the motto--This is not my
true parent; but Sir Philip bade him take these words--E fructu arbor
cognoscitur.

Sir Philip embraced the youth with strong marks of affection. “Be
composed, my child!” said he; “I have neither guilt, fear, nor doubt
in me; I am so certain of success, that I bid you be prepared for the
consequence.”

Zadisky embraced his friend, he comforted Edmund, he suggested every
thing that could confirm his hopes of success.

The marshal waited to deliver the spear to Sir Philip; he now presented
it with the usual form.

“Sir, receive your lance, and God defend the right!”

Sir Philip answered, “Amen!” in a voice that was heard by all present.

He next presented his weapon to Lord Lovel with the same sentence, who
likewise answered “Amen!” with a good courage. Immediately the lists
were cleared, and the combatants began to fight.

They contended a long time with equal skill and courage; at length
Sir Philip unhorsed his antagonist. The judges ordered, that either he
should alight, or suffer his enemy to remount; he chose the former, and
a short combat on foot ensued. The sweat ran off their bodies with the
violence of the exercise. Sir Philip watched every motion of his enemy,
and strove to weary him out, intending to wound, but not to kill him,
unless obliged for his own safety.

He thrust his sword through his left arm, and demanded, whether he would
confess the fact? Lord Lovel enraged, answered, he would die sooner.
Sir Philip then passed the sword through his body twice, and Lord Lovel
fell, crying out that he was slain.

“I hope not,” said Sir Philip, “for I have a great deal of business for
you to do before you die: confess your sins, and endeavour to atone for
them, as the only ground to hope for pardon.”

Lord Lovel replied, “You are the victor, use your good fortune
generously!”

Sir Philip took away his sword, and then waved it over his head, and
beckoned for assistance. The judges sent to beg Sir Philip to spare the
life of his enemy.

“I will,” said he, “upon condition that he will make an honest
confession.”

Lord Lovel desired a surgeon and a confessor.

“You shall have both,” said Sir Philip; “but you must first answer me a
question or two. Did you kill your kinsman or not?”

“It was not my hand that killed him,” answered the wounded man.

“It was done by your own order, however? You shall have no assistance
till you answer this point.”

“It was,” said he, “and Heaven is just!”

“Bear witness all present,” said Sir Philip; “he confesses the fact!”

He then beckoned Edmund, who approached.

“Take off your helmet,” said he; “look on that youth, he is the son of
your injured kinsman.”

“It is himself!” said the Lord Lovel, and fainted away.

Sir Philip then called for a surgeon and a priest, both of which Lord
Graham had provided; the former began to bind up his wounds, and his
assistants poured a cordial into his mouth. “Preserve his life, if it be
possible,” said Sir Philip; “for much depends upon it.”

He then took Edmund by the hand, and presented him to all the company.
“In this young man,” said he, “you see the true heir of the house of
Lovel! Heaven has in its own way made him the instrument to discover
the death of his parents. His father was assassinated by order of that
wicked man, who now receives his punishment; his mother was, by his
cruel treatment, compelled to leave her own house; she was delivered in
the fields, and perished herself in seeking a shelter for her infant.
I have sufficient proofs of every thing I say, which I am ready to
communicate to every person who desires to know the particulars. Heaven,
by my hand, has chastised him; he has confessed the fact I accuse him
of, and it remains that he make restitution of the fortune and honours
he hath usurped so long.”

Edmund kneeled, and with uplifted hands returned thanks to Heaven, that
his noble friend and champion was crowned with victory. The lords and
gentlemen gathered round them, they congratulated them both; while Lord
Lovel’s friends and followers were employed in taking care of him. Lord
Clifford took Sir Philip’s hand.

“You have acted with so much honour and prudence, that it is
presumptuous to offer you advice; but what mean you to do with the
wounded man?”

“I have not determined,” said he; “I thank you for the hint, and beg
your advice how to proceed.”

“Let us consult Lord Graham,” replied he.

Lord Graham insisted upon their going all to his castle: “There,” said
he, “you will have impartial witnesses of all that passes.” Sir Philip
was unwilling to give so much trouble. The Lord Graham protested he
should be proud to do any service to so noble a gentleman. Lord Clifford
enforced his request, saying, it was better upon all accounts to keep
their prisoner on this side the borders till they saw what turn his
health would take, and to keep him safely till he had settled his
worldly affairs.

This resolution being taken, Lord Graham invited the wounded man and
his friends to his castle, as being the nearest place where he could
be lodged and taken proper care of, it being dangerous to carry him
further. They accepted the proposal with many acknowledgements; and,
having made a kind of litter of boughs, they all proceeded to Lord
Graham’s castle, where they put Lord 

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