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CHAP. IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAP. V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But my father!" said Edwin.

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

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

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