The design of Sir Philip, in giving a ball, was this evening made
known, and the next day messages were sent out to invite the company
for that day week. Preparations were instantly begun, and new dresses
ordered. Madeline and Agnes de Clifford obtained leave to be of the
party, and several of the inhabitants of Bungay were highly pleased by
receiving invitations. Roseline, on whose account, as much as the
Baron's, it was given, was the least gratified. Any scene of
cheerfulness to her was become a scene of misery. Her spirits depressed
her mind, itself a chaos of contending passions, could not admit a
single ray of hope or comfort to chase away the gloom which there
prevailed. She no longer felt either pleasure or consolation in her
stolen interviews with her beloved Walter, which once afforded her such
indescribable satisfaction.
They now saw each other with a tender despondence, which served to
deprive them of that resolution which could alone support them in
those trials which no longer appeared at a distance, and Roseline,
sinking under the burthen of her own sorrows, felt herself totally
unable to share in those which equally overpowered her unfortunate
lover, from whose prison she never went, but he concluded it was the
last time he should be indulged with seeing her.
Walter heard of the ball, which was to be given in compliment to his
rival, with that kind of contempt and trembling indignation which a brave
officer feels at seeing some upstart stripling stepping over his head
to preferment, and, by dint of mere adventitious events, obtaining
authority to lead those whom he dared not have followed. It has always
been said that the sincerest love could not exist without hope. In this
instance, however, the assertion did not hold good; for, though hope was
lost, love maintained its empire, and, environed with despair, lost none
of that tender energy which had united two hearts under circumstances the
most alarming and distressing.
The conduct of Sir Philip de Morney surprised all those who were let
into the secret of the projected alliance. The Baron's pride appeared
to have infected him with a mania of the same kind; and the unpleasant
change it produced was not more inimical to the happiness of others than
he soon found it proved to his own. He was now seldom greeted with the
smile of affection: he saw looks of distress, and heard the sigh of
discontent vibrate on his ear; and, whilst he condemned the obstinacy
of others, determined resolutely to persevere in his own.
How much is it to be lamented, that, with all the knowledge he
acquires, man knows so little of himself! How astonishing that a
sudden and unexpected change in his prospects, or situation, should
instantaneously work so unaccountable a revolution in his feelings,
that he scarcely retains any recollection of his former
dispositions!--and, still more strange it appears, that, while
adversity serves to exalt the mind and purify the heart, prosperity
should harden and debase them.
About forty of those who had been invited to the ball returned
answers that they would do themselves the honour of accepting the
invitation. Roseline became so much changed in her looks, appearance,
and manner, that at length the alteration struck the Baron, and he
mentioned it to Sir Philip. This produced a second warm altercation
between him and Roseline, which ended as the former had done, namely,
in the want of resolution, strength, and spirits, on her part, to
contend longer on a subject so painful to her feelings, and so
inimical to all her hopes of happiness; for Sir Philip now insisted,
and that with a degree of unfeeling ferocity, that she should give
her hand to the Baron within ten days after the month was expired
which he had so foolishly allowed her perverse folly and caprice.
Of this interview Roseline said nothing to her brother or the
prisoner, but felt that her fortitude deserted her as time stole
away, and, with the deprivation of health and spirits, threatened to
leave her an uncontending and helpless victim to the authority she
began to doubt having power to resist. Still she determined, if
dragged by force to the altar, she would resolutely and openly,
before its sacred front, declare not only her unwillingness to become
the wife of the Baron, but her repugnance and aversion to the
monastic life.
At length the anxiously-expected, the long wished for evening
arrived, and produced an assemblage of as much elegance, grace, wit,
and beauty, as had ever been collected together in so confined a
circle.--From the social town of Bungay some very lovely young women
made their first appearance at the castle, decorated to the utmost
advantage, and justly entitled to dispute the palm of beauty with
many found in the higher ranks.
On this occasion, it is not to be doubted but they cherished hopes
that their charms would conquer some of the young officers appointed
to guard the fortress, on which the safety of themselves and the
town depended.
From the earliest ages of the world, the old adage prevailed,--"None
but the brave deserve the fair," while the military dress, shining
sword, and becoming cockade, were ever found useful auxiliaries in
assisting their wearer to find easy access to the female heart.
When dancing was ordered to begin, the Baron, arrayed most superbly,
took out Roseline, and led her to the upper end of the room. De Willows
followed, leading Edeliza, who was drest in the most becoming and
captivating stile, and looked so enchantingly beautiful, that he
wondered he had ever beheld her with indifference, or preferred another.
Her expressive eyes told a tale so correspondent to the feelings of his
own heart, as completed its conquest, and the captivity was found so
pleasing and easy, it never afterwards wished to regain its freedom.
Edwin danced with the gentle Madeline; Hugh Camelford with Bertha, and
the rest of the party disposed of themselves as their vanity or
inclination prompted.
The dancing was begun with avidity and spirit, which some very excellent
music served to heighten and keep up. The Baron not ungracefully
exhibited his well-dressed person, and this great personage had the
satisfaction of seeing that the eyes of the company were chiefly fixed
upon him who had procured them this unexpected indulgence,--a
circumstance unusual in an age when expensive pleasures were confined to
the higher ranks of life, and by that means less coveted by those in
inferior stations, which certainly tended to the good of society in
general, as it served to render all parties contented with their lot. We
now often see, with pity and regret, if young people are thrown by
chance into a walk of life some degrees higher than their habitual one,
they seldom know how to return to their former humble path without
discontent and regret, which will too often lead them to sacrifice
virtue, and every real good, for the frivolous nonsense of the dress and
the parade of ceremony, while, to obtain the enjoyment of pleasures
destructive to time and real happiness, they will give up their peace of
mind, not repent the poor bargain they have made so long as they can
live in stile.
Some few pitied, but a far greater number envied Roseline for having
made so important a conquest, and were surprised to see how little she
was animated amidst the exhilirating scene of gaiety and splendor,
wholly occupying the attention of one of the first barons in the
kingdom, whose smile by most people would be reckoned an honour, and
whose frown among many was destruction from which there was often no
appeal.
Every rarity that could be procured was set before the party.
Hospitality and festivity went hand in hand, and, to a careless and
uninterested spectator, it would have seemed that universal happiness
prevailed; but it was far otherwise. Happiness is seldom found amidst
a crowd. In the more retired scenes of serene unambitious enjoyment,
we have a much better change of finding that rara avis, and of
retaining it in our possession, if possible to be found.
Sir Philip de Morney was tormented with fears that the obstinacy of his
daughter would disappoint his ambition, while the tenderness of her
mother had so far subdued the influence of her pride, that, to see her
daughter restored to her former health and spirits, she would gladly
have yielded up the honour of an alliance with the Baron.
The artless unaspiring Roseline, before she was brought into notice by
the proud attentions of her noble admirer, was a far happier being than
she found herself at the moment she was looked up to as an object of
envy; but the simple dress she had been accustomed to wear was more
conformable to her own unadulterated taste than the splendid habiliments
with which she was now loaded, and which the pride, or design, of her
father had procured to throw a veil over her senses, and tempt her to
purchase those still more brilliant at the expence of her peace; yet,
notwithstanding all the fascinating allurements with which she saw
herself surrounded, the court, adulation, and respect, paid to her, the
eagerness of the company to obtain a share in her notice, her heart
remained with Walter, the unknown stranger, who belonged to no one,--who
was without fortune, and deprived of that freedom which is the birthright
of the poorest peasant; nevertheless Walter, in a gloomy and solitary
prison, was an object more captivating and far more valuable in her eyes
than the lordly Baron in a stately castle.
When they had danced about half an hour after supper, the Baron
apologized to Roseline for withdrawing to make some alteration in
his dress, which he found unpleasant. She felt herself gratified by
this temporary absence, and took the opportunity of chatting with
some of her young companions. Deeply engaged in conversation with
Madeline and Agnes de Clifford, she did not observe that her father
was suddenly called out of the room, and requested by the servant in
a whisper to hasten with the utmost speed to the apartment of his
friend.
Too much surprised to inquire the cause, he instantly obeyed the
summons. On his entrance, I will leave my readers to guess how much he
must have been alarmed and shocked at seeing that friend extended on
the floor, with every appearance of death on his countenance. After
trying various methods to recover him without effect, he ordered one
of his people to call De Clavering to his assistance, who, by some
powerful and proper applications, soon produced signs of life, but it
was near an hour before any of sense returned. He neither seemed to
know where he was, not why he saw so many people about him. At length,
however, he recovered his recollection,--said he had been very ill
but found himself better, and requested to be left a few minutes in
private with Sir Philip de Morney, whom be beckoned to sit down by the
side of the bed on which he was laid.
The room being cleared, and the door fastened, to prevent interruption,
the Baron grasped the hand of his friend, and in a hurried tone, at the
same time looking around him in terror, informed him that he had seen a
spirit. "It stood there!" pointing with his finger to a particular part
of the room. Sir Philip appeared incredulous, and his looks were not
misunderstood.
"Believe me, (continued the Baron,) it was no delusion of the senses.
I actually saw the ghost of my first wife as surely as I now see you,
and as perfectly as ever I saw her when alive. She glided out of the
apartment the moment I entered it to change my dress, which I found
too heavy for dancing. She looked displeased, frowned sternly upon
me, and shook her head as she disappeared. Her countenance was as
blooming, and retained the same beauty and expression as when I led
her in triumph to the altar twenty years ago."
"Surely, my lord, (said Sir Philip,) this supposed visionary appearance
must be the effects of the disorder which attacked you so violently,
that it led De Clavering, as well as myself, to tremble for your life."
"Say rather, (replied the Baron,) and then you will say right, the
disorder was occasioned by the terror, which, in that moment, indeed
deprived me of my senses.--If I see you at this time, I then beheld
the face, form, and features, of my once-loved Isabella, of whom I was
deprived by death in the infancy of my happiness, six months after she
had given birth to a son, of whom the same inexorable tyrant robbed me
in the fourth year of my second marriage."
Sir Philip found it was useless to contend with his friend on a subject
in which he so obstinately persevered; and, though he was satisfied
that the fright was merely the effect of disease, he though it wisest
to confine his disbelief to his own bosom, and drop the conversation as
soon as possible. He insisted on remaining with him the rest of the
night, and cherished hopes that by the morning this unaccountable
vagary would be forgotten, or only remembered as a sudden delirium,
occasioned perhaps by heat, and the unusual exercise in which he had
been engaged. His offer of sitting up was cordially accepted, and the
two gentlemen agreed it would be right and prudent to say as little
about the ghost as possible, Sir Philip secretly trembling left the
Baron's unfortunate whim should operate so powerfully upon his feelings
as to prevent his fulfilling at engagements with Roseline.
This strange circumstance occasioned so much confusion and hurry in the
castle, that the party separated much earlier than they wished, and every
one accounted, as their own humour dictated, for the sudden indisposition
of the Baron. One or two, mortified by their pleasure being so
unseasonably curtailed, said the old man had better have gone to bed at
eight o'clock, or not have attempted dancing in a ball-room when he was
dancing on the verge of the grave.
Sir Philip, with two servants, sat with the Baron during the night,
and in the morning De Clavering found him so much recovered, that he
advised him to get into the air, as that, with moderate exercise, he
ventured to pronounce would perfect his recovery, and he would have
nothing to fear from a relapse, if he kept himself composed; but
that same composure the Baron did not find quite so easy to acquire
as De Clavering imagined.
The awful appearance he had seen was not one moment from his
remembrance: it still flitted before his mental sight, and his tortured
mind presented only Isabella to his view. She had frowned upon him,
shaken her head, and vanished with a look of anger and contempt: with
this regretted and beloved wife he had passed by far the happiest
moments of his life. She was the first, and indeed the only, woman he
had really loved, notwithstanding the world had unjustly branded him
with being an unkind and morose husband. It had in the respect dealt by
him with the same injustice it had done by a thousand others. The
delicate frame of Isabella was wasting in a rapid decline, from the
moment she became a mother. He had adored her, and watched her as his
richest treasure during the few months she had lingered with him, after
presenting him with a son; she expired in his arms, and the severest
pang she felt was being torn from them for ever. Why she should rise
from the grave, why she should frown upon him, who had loved her so
sincerely, he could neither comprehend nor reconcile to his feelings.
With his second wife he had lived several years; but all the happiness
he had found in the course of them was not to be compared with that
which he had enjoyed with his gentle Isabella, in the short time he
had been indulged with the pleasure of calling her his own.
By the second lady, he had several children, and it was the death of an
only surviving son, at the age of sixteen, on whom she had doted with an
almost unpardonable fondness, which had occasioned her own.
Having been thus been deprived of two wives, and bereaved of his
childres, without having any near relations for whom he felt those
prevailing and powerful affections which could lead him to proctise
self-denial on their account, he justly considered himself at liberty
to endeavour to find happiness in the way to which his ideas of it were
annexed, and therefore made choice of the daughter of his friend, Sir
Philip, to share his fortune, and inherit such a part of it, as he
should find her worthy to possess, if she did not bring him those who
would have a more rightful claim to it.
He had no sooner recovered the shock and terror which he had so awfully
and unaccountable experienced, than he determined to persevere, and
accelerate all the necessary preparations for the completion of his
marriage.
He was now eager to quit Bungay-Castle, and to return with the most
convenient speed to his own, as he could not entirely divest himself of
apprehension, that he might receive another unpleasant visit from his
Isabella, whom, much as he had sincerely loved and admired when living,
he did not now wish should leave her grave to interrupt those pleasures
which he anticipated from the nature of his present engagements.
Sir Philip, who from the first had suspected the Baron's alarm and
subsequent terror to have originated from a more natural (however
unaccountable) cause than that to which he so obstinately imputed it,
made all the inquiries he dared risk, without giving his reasons for so
doing; but, notwithstanding his most artful endeavours, the mystery
remained unexplained, and he was obliged to leave it to time, or
chance, to develope.