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CHAP. VII

As the dreaded day of separation drew near, the dejection which appeared on the countenance of the lovers was too visible to escape the observation of their friends. – The Baron felt himself particularly hurt: his son had already endured so much misery by his neglect and unpardonable compliance with the wishes of an artful and designing mother-in-law, that, to inflict any farther mortifications or sufferings on him, was in reality to inflict them more severely upon himself: he therefore promised to return within six weeks, or two months, to unite the young people.

This period of time, reckoned in the usual way, was not long; but the lovers are not guided by the same rules, nor can bring themselves to calculate hours and days, weeks, and months, like other people. To repeat the tender adieus, the fears, tears, cautions, and promises, of everlasting truth, would perhaps be tiresome to some of our readers, as it would be merely a repetition of the same fine and tender things which have been said by ten thousand fond lovers, upon ten thousand interesting occasions; suffice it then to say, the Baron and his son departed from the castle at the appointed time, and left the disconsolate Roseline in a state none could envy, and all were inclined to pity; and so much was the heart of her lover afflicted at being the cause of distressing her, he could not be prevailed upon to join in any conversation, and scarcely looked up till he entered the great and busy city of London, the noise and bustle of which drew him in some measure from his reverie, which had been nearly as painful to his friends as to himself, and the Baron, eager to disperse the gloom from the countenance of his son, pointed out some of the most striking objects to engage his attention, as they were whirled along to a very noble house in – square, where we must leave him for the present, in order to return to the castle.

From the moment of Walter's departure the disconsolate Roseline sunk into so absolute a state of dejection, as not only distressed but alarmed her friends. She shunned society, seldom joined in conversation, and, if left a few moments by herself, fled to the apartments once inhabited by her lover; – there, and there only, did she assume the appearance of cheerfulness; every place in which she had seen him was endeared to her remembrance. The chairs on which he had rested, the table on which he had written, the window at which he had stood to listen for her coming, – all were interesting objects, and loved by her for his sake; and, in being deprived of seeing him, of hearing no longer the sound of a voice so long endeared to her fond imagination, she felt so total a deprivation of all that served to render life or fortune of real value, that the determined in her own mind, if this regretted lover should prove forgetful or inconstant, if he should return no more to the castle, to end her days in his forsaken apartments; for what would be the world to Roseline de Morney, if she should see Walter Fitzosbourne no more?

Pompey, the little dog, which she had seen the second time of going to the dungeons, and which had been the favourite and faithful companion of her lover during some years of his confinement, she would scarcely permit to be out of her sight: to him she talked of his master, and in caressing the grateful little animal felt pleasure and consolation.

Sir Philip and Lady de Morney were distressed beyond measure at seeing the despondency of their daughter, which they feared would put and end to all their flattering hopes. They endeavoured by every soothing and tender attention to reconcile her to this temporary separation, and in a short time succeeded so far as to prevail upon her to resume her usual employments. They advised her to dissipate her fears, and try to regain her spirits for the sake of the lover whose absence she lamented, reminding her how much it would harass and distress him, if, at his return to the castle, he found she had brought upon herself an indisposition which might still preclude him from enjoying her society.

But their cares and anxieties were soon increased, and their minds occupied and thrown into the utmost consternation, from a circumstance more unaccountable, inexplicable, and alarming, than anything they had ever encountered.

Madeline had escaped from the nunnery, and Edwin had left the castle. No one could tell what was become of them, but all supposed they were gone off together. – A general confusion took place; messengers were sent in pursuit of the fugitives, and a very considerable reward was offered to any who would bring tidings of Madeline. Sir Philip de Morney joined in the search, and sent out large parties of his men, in hopes they would be able to discover the place of their concealment.

Roseline, though less surprised, was extremely shocked at the dangerous step her brother and his friend had ventured to take. – The abbess was angry, the fathers enraged, and the youthful offenders threatened with the utmost severity the laws could inflict, should they be found out. Lady de Morney was wretched beyond description, and Roseline, who almost lost the remembrance of her own sorrows at seeing the agonies of her mother, and in fears for her brother, was alarmed at the return of every messenger. – These affectionate relatives trembled lest they should bring tidings of the unfortunate lovers. A week however elapsed, and no discovery being made, Roseline secretly cherished hopes that they would be able to escape their pursuers.

She accompanied Sir Philip and Lady de Morney to the nunnery; they soon removed the displeasure of the abbess, and dispersed the gloom, which had long hung upon her brow, at their first entrance: they likewise softened the asperity of father Anselm, and the rest of his brethren, who had written to inform the father of Madeline of the occurrence which had taken place, and had received an answer dictated by the spirit of malice and revenge, vowing to renounce her for ever, unless she returned to the nunnery, and instantly took the veil; at the same time adding every thing that passion could suggest to rouse the vengeance of the fathers for the indignity offered to their sacred order by the flight of a wretch he never again would acknowledge as a daughter.

This cruel and unfeeling letter operated directly contrary to what it was intended, and awakened feelings in the bosoms of men who had long been strangers to the world, and unpracticed in the habits of social life, – too unpleasant to be encouraged. They felt a kind of trembling horror at the denunciations of a parent against a daughter, whose interesting features, sweetness of disposition, and gentleness of temper, had endeared her to every one in the nunnery.

Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed, and no tidings being heard of the fugitives, Lady de Morney began to revive, and she cherished the soul-reviving hope that her beloved Edwin would escape, and remain undiscovered till a pardon could be procured for him and his fair companion, for the crime they had committed in robbing their holy church of a votary designed for its service; and she lingered with impatient fondness to clasp her son and the lovely Madeline to her maternal bosom. Sir Philip was much hurt by this affair; and, though he said very little on the subject, it was very visible to every one that his mind was very deeply wounded.

It may now be necessary that we should give some account of the means made use of to escape, and the cause which drove the young people to take so desperate a step.

The abbess, who felt an almost maternal regard for Madeline, had observed with affectionate regret that there was something which preyed deeply upon her spirits, but had not the least suspicion of the affection which she cherished for her nephew; and, being too much bigotted to her religion, too much attached to the habits of a monastic life, to suppose any one could long remain unhappy after having given up a world which she had voluntarily quitted and never regretted, she confined her observations to her own bosom, and, in drawing her conclusions, forgot the melancholy and distressing cause which had determined her seclusion from the world. Time had likewise in some degree blunted those tender feelings which would otherwise have taught her to make more indulgent allowances for the feelings and conflicts of nineteen, when sentenced by an arbitrary parent to the unsocial and rigid rules of an order that precluded the soul-enlivening, the enchanting influence of love.

The abbess, on receiving a letter from the father of Madeline, with a peremptory command for her instantly taking the veil, summoned her into the presence of father Anselm and herself, and the letter was put into her hand, without any kind of preface that could discover or soften its contents. – The effect this horrid mandate had on the mind of their youthful charge could not be concealed: she was instantly obliged to be conveyed to her cell, and remained for some hours in a state that threatened destraction.

The alarming situation of Madeline distressed both the good father and the sympathizing abbess; but, circumstanced as they were, they could only pity; for they would have considered it as a crime of the most sacrilegious nature to have assisted in depriving their holy institution of a votary so likely to be an ornament and acquisition to is; and, as the father of Madeline was determined she should embrace a monastic life, they had neither any right nor inclination to contend against a decision which operated so much in their favour, and would add so lovely a sister to their society: they agreed therefore that it would be better to take no notice, unless she herself should voluntarily impart the cause of her distress.

It is now become absolutely necessary to inform our readers that Edwin had for some weeks conquered the fears of Madeline, and prevailed on her to grant him frequent interviews in the chapel. He had also extorted a promise from her, when matters came to the last extremity, to fly with him, if her escape from the nunnery could be effected, in order to avoid a fate which her love had taught her to think of all others the most miserable, and to accept his vows instead of taking those which would separate them for ever.

On the one hand, happiness stood pourtrayed in its most captivating colours; – on the other, wretchedness, solitary wretchedness grinned with ghastly horror and meagre aspect. At her age, I am inclined to think, few young ladies would have hesitated how to choose, particularly if, like the artless and gentle Madeline, they had given away their heart to an amiable and impassioned lover.

Edwin, in his stolen visits to the chapel, had usually been accompanied by his trusty friend Albert, and once or twice Walter had been of the party. On the promises and intrepid firmness of Albert they rested their security of not being discovered. Madeline's situation was likewise become so alarming and distressing, she no longer yielded to those timid fears which had formerly deterred her from meeting her lover. She found herself so encompassed with dangers, that it required both resolution and spirit to disengage herself from the fate which threatened her; and, as no father time could be given either to deliberation of doubt, and no alternative remained but to escape from the nunnery or take the veil, she hesitated no longer, but met, fearlessly met her lover, in order to settle a proper plan to secure the success of their design, which, as it drew near being put in practice, appeared both hazardous and dangerous.

Their meetings in the chapel were frequently interrupted by the friars or nuns, who had generally some sacred duty to perform either for the living or the dead, in the execution of which some of the fathers had been extremely alarmed, and it was whispered throughout the sacred walls, and by some means the report crept into the world, that the chapel of the nunnery was disturbed by an invisible agent, which was considered as a miracle in favour of its holy institution.

It was an age of bigotry and superstition, when every plan was adopted to impress on the minds of the people that reverence and awe which would prevent their finding out the various arts made use of to impose on their belief. Hence that reverence and enthusiasm for relics shewn in almost every church and chapel, and applied to for aid on all important occasions.

Yet it sometimes happened that impositions were discovered, but the power and influence of the priests prevented, as much as possible, reports so dangerous gaining any credit, and the minds of the common people were kept so much in awe by fear, and so hoodwinked by the superstition, that thousands resorted daily to one repository or another, in order to feast their eyes with its sacred treasures.

"At Reading they shewed an angel's wing, that brought over the spear's point which pierced our Saviour's side, and as many pieces of the cross were found as joined together would have made a big cross. The rood of grace, at Boxley, in Kent, had been much esteemed, and drawn many pilgrims to it. It was observed to bow and roll its eyes, and look at times well pleased or angry, which the credulous multitude, and even some of the inferior priests, imputed to a divine power; but all this was afterwards discovered to be a cheat, and it was brought up to St. Paul's cross, and all the springs were openly shewed which governed its several motions.

"At Hales, in Gloucestershire, the blood of Christ was shewn in a phial, and it was believed that none could see it who were in mortal sin; and so, after good presents were made, the deluded pilgrims went away well satisfied if they had seen it. This was the blood of a duck, renewed every week, put in a phial, very thick on one side, as thin on the other; and either side turned towards the pilgrims as the priests were satisfied with their oblations. – Other relics were shewn as follows: – God's coat, our Lady's smock, part of God's supper, our Lady's girdle of Bruton; red silke, a solemne relic sent to women in travail; the parings of St. Edmund's nails, relics for rain, for avoiding the weeds growing in corn, &c. &c." – ²

It happened one night, when our young lovers were deeply engaged in a most important and interesting conversation, in which they did not recollect there were any other beings but themselves in the world, they were terribly alarmed, and very near being discovered by the abrupt and sudden entrance of father Anselm, and one of the monks, into the chapel. They hastily approached the altar, being summoned to attend a dying monk, and to perform the ceremonies which the necessity of the case required. They were however informed by a voice, which appeared to rise from the earth on which they stood, that they might return to the peace of their cells, for the soul of their dying brother was in no danger of being lost, their prayers and pious oraisons having already had a salutary effect.

It so happened, that the monk, having conquered the crisis of his distemper, was sunk into a profound sleep at their return, which promised a happy change in his favour. The whole society were summoned into the chapel the next morning, and informed of this miraculous communication. All the proper ceremonies were ostentatiously performed which such an honourable attestation of their sincere piety required, and the sick monk considered as worthy of canonization.

A few nights after, a monk, who had forgotten to place one of the consecrated vessels on the high altar, which father Anselm had particularly requested should be left there against the following day, on which the sacrament was to be administered with the utmost solemnity, on recollecting the omission, rose from his bed, and stole softly into the chapel to obey the orders he had received. This unfortunately was a night on which the lovers had agreed to meet. Before he had reached the altar, he was somewhat startled at seeing one of the oldest and most austere of the nuns kneeling by the grave of a father lately deceased, and with uplifted hands praying that pardon and peace might be extended to his soul.

The monk, when he came to the altar, instantly dropped on his knees before it, unwilling the old nun should suppose he came upon a less pious errand than herself; but he was soon frightened from his devotions by a soft voice, which seemed to descend from behind a very fine painting of the crucifixion. – He was desired to return to his cell, no longer to act the hypocrite, and in future to perform more punctually the duties of his office.

The monk no sooner heard this alarming address, than he hurried out of the chapel as fast as his gouty legs and the numerous infirmities of age would permit him; but the nun, who was at too great a distance from the monk to hear the cause of his terror, went on with those devotional rights which a particular regard for the departed father rendered so gratifying to the feelings of her pious and affectionate heart, that she was in no hurry to conclude them; when the same mysterious agent, whose voice appeared to rise from the grave of her deceased favourite, near which she was so devoutly kneeling, shivering with age and cold, roughly warned her to have done, advising her to go to rest and sleep in peace, as he did, who no longer could be disturbed by her tongue of benefited by her prayers.

The poor frightened nun scampered off as fast as she could, muttering something against the ingratitude of man, who, dead or alive, was unworthy the attentions of her pious sex. Yet, as she crossed herself, she secretly rejoiced at having, as she thought, obtained leave of heaven and father John to abstain from such great and unreasonable demands upon her oraisons in future. – She took care, however, the next morning to inform the monk, with seeming exultation, of her being so highly favoured as to hear a voice from heaven, which excused her from praying at those hours appointed for mortals to be at rest.

This was a night calculated to alarm the lovers; for no sooner had the nun left the chapel, than another entered to fetch a solemn relic, to send to a woman who was in travail, from the chest near which they were seated. As she was looking for the precious treasure, they were trembling at the danger they were in of being discovered; for there was but just time to step into the tomb which led to the subterraneous passage, when they were thus the third time disturbed. – The nun, as she closed the chest, was addressed in the following words.

"Wear Mary Magdalene's girdle twice a week: – place the scull of St. Lawrence at the East corner of your cell, and live on bread and water every fifth day; or neither you, nor your father-confessor will escape purgatory."

Down dropped the relic, and away ran the nun to repeat to her cher ami the warning which had been given her; but, whether he was as much terrified as herself we do not know, as the lovers very soon effected their escape, and the voice was heard no more.

No longer to puzzle our readers, excite their fears, or keep them in suspense, respecting this miraculous voice, which had alarmed the Baron in his visit to the cells, and had likewise been the occasion of much surprise, and some exultation, to the pious inhabitants of the nunnery, it is necessary to inform them that it proceeded from Albert, who was himself a ventriloquist, or person possessed of the power of using a kind of artificial hollow voice, in such a manner, as to make the sound appear to come from any part of the room, where-ever he happened to be, or from any animal that was present in it.

This uncommon power, rarely known in that age, Albert had frequently exercised to amuse and entertain the solitary hours of his master, in his long and painful seclusion from the world, and afterwards to serve him and his friend.

It may not perhaps, in this place, be improper to mention, that, a few years since, a person came to St. Edmund's Bury, in Suffolk, whose uncommon and wonderful powers of throwing his voice to any distance, and into whatever place he chose, alarmed some, and surprised all who witnessed this strange and almost unaccountable phenomenon of nature; therefore, in an age so much more prone to indulge the idle chimaeras of superstition, so much under the dictatorial bigotry of priestcraft, it is not to be wondered that a circumstance so uncommon should be considered as miraculous, particularly among a set of men who had recourse to such various arts, and took such wonderful pains to instill into the minds of the people a firm and unshaken belief that miracles were shewn on some important occasions, in order to confirm the truth of the religion they professed.