Unsegmented source body · Part 2

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!”