When the party met at dinner, the simple elegance of Roseline's engaging
figure, divested of those ornaments which a few hours before had been so
lavishly put on her by the fingers of taste, appeared far more
captivating: her eyes were illumined with an expression of joy and
satisfaction to which they had long been strangers; the change conveyed
a train of the most enchanting sensations to the heart of her admiring
lover, and did not pass unobserved by her friends. To Sir Philip they
carried a silent reproach for having so long robbed them of their
lustre.
Roseline was seated between the Baron and his son, and, though this was
the first time Walter had ever dined with so large a party, or witnessed
the comforts of a plentiful table, laden with the rarities of art and
nature, he was neither awkward not embarrassed; for his friend Albert,
to fill up the heavy hours as they slowly crept away during their long
and tedious imprisonment, had described to him the manners and customs
of the world, among all ranks of people, with the utmost accuracy and
care, and by these means prepared him for scenes which must otherwise
have astonished, and in many instances alarmed, him.
The good Albert was placed between De Clavering and De Willows, who took
this opportunity of shewing him their most flattering attention, and, in
consequence, he was encouraged to hold a very respectable part in the
conversation. As he had before given undeniable proofs of the goodness
of his heart, he now unfolded to the company the excellence of his
understanding, and convinced them, that, if the prisoner had been
educated amidst the bustle of the world, he could not have found a
better preceptor as to sound judgement and useful knowledge.--Thus
honoured and happy, he found in part a reward for the integrity and
humanity of his conduct, while the approving eye of his grateful master
spoke a language which conveyed a joy to his heart that is rarely felt,
and cannot be defined.
Edwin and De Willows paid every attention to their fair enslavers, no
longer fearing the penetrating eyes of the governor, who was too much
taken up with the eclaircissement of the morning to suspect any other
lovers were present.
After the company rose from the table, at the Baron's particular
request, they went to look into those dreary apartments to which the
prisoner had been consigned at his first coming to the castle. Edwin
produced the key of the trap-door, and conducted them down the same
stairs which he and his trembling companions had descended when they
were alarmed by the unusual noises they heard in the lower part of the
castle. Every minute circumstance was interesting to the company; but to
the Baron they were connected with a tale that awakened every feeling of
his heart. Few therefore can be at a loss to guess his sensations when
he entered the cold, gloomy, and unwholesome dungeon in which this
darling son, the child of his Isabella, had lingered so many months, and
was told by Albert, that it was far more comfortable and commodious than
the one he had been inclosed in many long and tedious years.
The Baron shuddered with horror, sat down on the humble and uneasy couch
which had been Walter's only bed, during a long and dangerous
indisposition, and again called upon Albert to describe his first
interview with Roseline; the tale was again repeated, and lost none of
its effect by repetition.--Walter, the tear trembling in his eye as it
was fondly bent on Roseline, grasped her hand, and poured out the warm
effusions of his grateful and enamoured heart.
To trace the progress of nature, unvitiated by false taste, and
uncorrupted by guilt, is, in my opinion, (said De Clavering,) the most
entertaining and instructive history we can read, and far more useful is
the language it contains than all the crabbed and unfeeling documents of
the most studious philosopher, who loses the gentle propensities of his
nature by snuffing up the dust of ancient libraries, till the spiders
have woven their cobweb-looms in his head, and left no space for nature
to creep in, and shew her unadulterated face; but, in my opinion, the
chief happiness, both of man and woman, consists in the knowledge and
practice of all the social affections."
The Baron, struck with these observations, held out his hand to De
Clavering, requesting to be better acquainted with him, and apologizing
for his former neglect, which was chiefly owing to the singularity of
his situation, which made him behold every man younger than himself with
envy and suspicion; "but now (added he) I have resigned all my
pretensions to the prior claims of my son, wishing to atone for my past
errors, and to prove myself worthy the esteem of all those to whom he
owes an obligation."
"To me lord, (replied De Clavering,) your son owes nothing: till a few
days back I knew not of his residence in the castle: to my respect and
esteem I considered him as having a just claim. From the first hour I
had the honour of being introduced to him, I felt a desire to serve him;
but all I ever did was to accompany him from the castle to the chapel,
for which I never expected to be pardoned by your lordship."
"But, as his lordship offers you his friendship, (said the giddy and
spirited Hugh Camelford,) you had petter accept it now he in the the
humour. Lorts are not always in the mind to be coot friends with teath
and the toctor."
This essay of elocution obtained the Baron's notice, and, by making
every one smile, succeeded to his wish. Camelford, thus encouraged, gave
way to the unbounded cheerfulness of his disposition, by again renewing
his attack upon his friend De Clavering, telling him it was high time
for him to be prushing away the cobwebs of old patchelorship, and pecome
a man of the world, otherwise no laty, maid, or witow, would undertake
the care of his old pones, and the pones of those he had pought out of
their craves. De Clavering, who seldom felt himself in the humour to be
displeased with his young friend, owned that he was as singular in his
sentiments as the ladies, he was afraid, might think him in his manners
and appearance.
"You must endeavour to become more modern, and like one of us, (said De
Willows.) To be better known cannot fail to secure you a most favourable
reception."
"A piece of advice I have often given him myself, (said Sir Philip.) To
make our progress through life with credit and advantage to ourselves,
we must so far become men of the world, as to seek for those favours it
is not willing to bestow unsought or unsolicited."
"But, for a man to be able to get through it with uninterrupted success,
(replied De Clavering, I have sometimes thought he must be brought up a
rascal from the first. I own I should find so many places that would
tempt me to halt in my way, that I should certainly be prevented
reaching the envied and contested goal; for, before I would submit to
have my house crowded with a succession of what might be called good
company, I would take an inn, and, in the character of mine host, flay a
safer, and as pleasant a game. I should not then be under the necessity
of sacrificing my sentiments, or more of my time, than I found answered
the purpose of keeping house to accommodate all comers and goers."
"What! (said Camelford,) would you be peat py a prother toctor, because
you would not apply a strengthening plaister of goot and smooth worts to
make it stick close? would you not gif the laties a healing cordial of
compliments ro reconcile them to their lofs of peauty, their lap-dog, or
their lofer? Fie, man, they would not suffer you to toctor their cat!"
"What I might be tempted to do, or how far I might relax from my system,
to please the ladies, (replied De Clavering,) I cannot tell till I
become more _a man of the world,_ and feel myself more attached to many
of its customs: but this I do know, there are a set of patients to whom
I could not sacrifice my own sentiments to obtain the command of their
purses. For instance,--can a man, who has wasted his youth in vice and
debauchery, justly complain of a premature old age? or ought he to
excite the pity of any one who knew the source whence his miseries
originated? Can we sympathize with the man of business, who has brought
upon himself the torturing paroxysms of a fever by the disappointment of
some monopolizing plan, the success of which must have been productive
of distress and misery to many hundreds of their fellow-creatures. Can
the voluptuary and the drunkard think themselves entitled either to
flattery or compassion, when their sufferings have been occasioned by
eating till they gained a surfeit, or by drinking so hard as to make a
kind of turnpike-road from their stomachs to their bowels."
"All in the way of business, (said Edwin.) Instead of quarrelling with
the cause, you have nothing more to do, my good friend, but to turn
their follies to your own account, and do as thousands have done before
you--make them contribute in some way or other to the good of the
community."
"If we were disposed to quarrel with vice and folly every time we
encounter them, (said Camelford,) we should be engaged in a perpetual
contest, and should only ket proken pones and the plister of contention
for our pains."
"True, (replied the venerable father Anselm, who till now had observed a
placid silence as he listened to the above conversation,) we should all
agree to make the same allowance for the failings and frailties of
others as we are inclined to do when we sit in judgement upon our own,
and rather strive to find excuses than causes to condemn; like the
blessed master we all unite to serve, whose precepts and practice were
calculated for the good and happiness of all mankind."
"Just so would mine be, my dear father, (said De Clavering,) so far as
an erring mortal can be supposed to copy a divine original; but I would
not flatter people with a belief that I could feel for the miseries
entailed by vice as I would for those which originated from any other
cause. There are moments when I see the patient and virtuous sufferer
looking up to me for health and life, that I would compound with
pleasure to be any thing rather than what I am."
"Rather (said Sir Philip) endeavour to rest satisfied with being what
you are,--the true Samaritan, the friendly physician, who assumes the
appearance of misanthropy, without having a grain of it in his
composition."
"In order to conceal feelings that do ho-honour to his profession and to
human nature."
The Baron, having looked at every thing, and asked innumerable
questions, the party next visited the rooms where Edwin and Roseline
risked so much in daring to remove Walter, and in which he had so long
remained undiscovered by the family. Here Walter himself described, in
his own artless manner, the delight he felt when he, for the first time,
saw the rising sun, and contemplated the brilliant scene which the moon
and stars presented to his astonished sight; he mentioned likewise his
rapture when first convinced that the fair Roseline felt for him a
mutual passion. He then described the conflicts he endured on the
morning when he knew she was really gone to give her hand to another,
and owned the miseries of that moment surpassed those of his whole life,
and, if thrown into a scale against them, would have weighed down all.
He then adverted to his feelings when he approached the altar, and to
the awe and respect he felt at sight of the Baron.
In the evening it was proposed to take a ramble through the gardens
belonging to the castle, now profusely decorated with all the variegated
beauties of the soul-enlivening spring, which were on the eve of giving
place to the succeeding charms of summer. Here it was that the happy,
the grateful Walter met such a succession of wonders and delight as
rendered the scene doubly pleasing to those who partook in his raptures.
Every flower, plant, and shrub, every tree, leaf, and vegetable, excited
his admiration and gratitude. The distant fields,--the rising
hills,--the water,--the numberless houses,--all were admired in turn,
and became the theme of his praise.--It was a charming world,--it was
the paradise of which he had read,--the very garden of Eden, such as our
first parents possessed, and Roseline the magnet which gave such sweet
attraction to all he saw, and all he should enjoy in it.
So much was he delighted with the scene, it was not till the shades of
evening began to approach, and throw a gloom over the face of nature,
that even the gentle admonitions of Roseline could prevail upon him to
return to the castle. Like another Cymon, he found liberty too great a
blessing, too pleasing to be willing to part with it when once he had
tasted its soul-reviving influence.
Many of the following days were spent in making excursions round the
country, and in shewing him every thing worthy of notice. He visited the
neighbouring towns and villages, looked into the churches, saw the sea,
and was conveyed on board a ship, whose wonderful construction, and the
vast world of waters on which it so majestically floated, awakened every
sensation of astonishment. He was next indulged by sailing on the river
Waveney in an open boat, rowed by some of our old English sailors, whose
rough and cheerful humour gratified and entertained him.
A house was likewise procured for him: he soon learned to ride, and
became so fond of the exercise, that few days passed without his going
some miles about the country. His fine figure, expressive countenance,
and conciliating manner, his gentleness, and unceasing good humour, made
him an universal favourite, and all the inhabitants of Bungay welcomed
his appearance among them with every testimony of respect, joy, and
satisfaction.
The Baron and his friend, Sir Philip, had many consultations respecting
the intended marriage of their children, whose youth and total ignorance
of the world, of which Walter could scarcely be called an inhabitant,
rendered it absolutely necessary that he should be properly introduced
at court, in order to have his birth made known, and his right and
titles ascertained. It was equally necessary that he should become more
conversant with the customs and manners of that world, on whose stage he
was now to make so distinguished a figure; and, as he had been prevented
seeing foreign countries, it was a duty the Baron thought incumbent upon
him to take care he should be well acquainted with his own, and
instructed in the value of its just and equitable laws, which, he had
cause to lament, were sometimes abused by the designs of artful and
wicked men, though the envy of every other nation in the world.
When these designs were made known to Walter, the distress it produced
is not to be described. To be separated from Roseline!--the thought was
agony;--without seeing her every day, without being in the same place
with her, it was not to be borne. He should never be able to acquire any
knowledge unless the gentle maid, to whom he was indebted for life, was
near, and by her soul-enlivening presence animated his endeavours, while
in her smiles he should find a bright reward for the unwearied pains he
should not shrink from encountering for her sake.
Roseline was not at all better reconciled to the plan, nor more at ease
than himself. She was apprehensive he might in the great world see some
one he like better than herself. She had heard men inconstant and prone
to change. The heart she had gained in the dungeon of Bungay-castle
might perchance, when engaged in the great world, surrounded by
pleasure, and besieged by the bright eyes of beauty, stray from her
bosom to that of a more lovely and accomplished mistress;--to a more
fond and faithful on it could not be entrusted; but, as no one, she
supposed, could refuse the attentions of Walter, she trembled at the
idea of being separated.
These timid fears were not kept from the ear of her lover, who, in some
degree, quieted them with that persuasive eloquence which love never
fails to bestow on its faithful votaries. He inquired if she thought it
possible he could be so great a villain as to prefer the beauties of a
court to the lovely Roseline of Bungay-castle,--the gentle being who not
only preserved his life, but taught him to enjoy it, whose unwearied
attentions smoothed the bed of sickness, removed the veil of ignorance,
and gave to his unfortunate life the first bright moment it had ever
known. He vowed, if he thought any thing he might find in the world
could tempt him to forgive her, or love her less than he did at that
moment, he would voluntarily return to his dungeon, and never leave it
more: he earnestly and pathetically petitioned his father and Sir Philip
de Morney not to compel him to leave his adored Roseline till he was
blessed with calling her his own.
With this request, however, they could not with prudence comply: it was
not only right, but absolutely necessary he should be publicly
acknowledged as the Baron's son before his marriage took place, to
prevent the establishment of his rights being subject to suspicion or
litigation. Against reasons so weighty and just there was no contending,
and therefore they were obliged to submit, though these untaught
children of simple nature yielded very reluctantly to a plan which was
to secure in their possession all those fascinating enjoyments which
the inhabitants of our busy world are continually pursuing, and to
obtain which, without any necessity of compulsion, they often make more
important sacrifices.
Albert was no longer considered or treated as a servant. The Baron
generously determined, as soon as he reached town, to give such orders
to his attorney as should secure him a genteel independency; and, as he
was no longer distressed with the apprehension of being separated from
his beloved master, he enjoyed all the comforts, with a grateful heart
which the liberality of his benefactors bestowed, and met with that
unfeigned respect, from every one who knew the worth and integrity of
his character, to which he was so justly entitled.
As Audrey was attending her young lady, in her apartment, after she had
been at the chapel to be married, and returned from thence without
becoming a bride, she, as it may be supposed, was too full of the
occurrences of the day to be silent on the subject every one was talking
about, but which she did not, on her part, by any means approve, knowing
what her own feelings would have been on a similar occasion.
"Well, to be sure and certain, miss, (cried she,) the like of this was
never heard since the mencement of the world; for to go to church to be
married, to take the bride's groom in your hand, as a body may say, and
then to come back as you went, without being married at all! As I have a
vartuous and Christian soul to be saved, if I had been volved in such a
quandrary, I would never have left the chapel without a husband, young
or old, let what would have been the consequence.--People fleer and jeer
so about misventures of this kind, and asks one for bride's cake, and
talks so indellorcatly on this subject: however, don't fret, miss; it
seems you may be married still, but, for my part, I likes it best as
it is."
"I think in this instance as you do, Audrey, (replied Roseline, with
difficulty keeping herself from offending the honest-hearted Abigail, by
bursting into a violent fit of laughter,) yet the Baron is certainly a
fine-looking old gentleman."
"Fine feathers make fine birds, (said Audrey,) but as to his being
fine-looking, Christ Jesus, miss, to be sure master Cuford, the blind
god of love, has made you blinder than himself."
Roseline could no longer preserve her gravity.
"Blind, or not blind, (said she,) I assure you, Audrey, I thought the
Baron looked and talked like an angel after we returned from the chapel;
and, what is more, ugly as you think him, I love him dearly, and cannot
help looking at him with pleasure and delight."
"To be sure, (said Audrey aside,) the disappointment has turned her
head, and arranged all her interlects.--As sure as God is true, miss,
(said she) you have taken strange vaggaries into your head: it was but
yesterday I thought you were going into a vapid recline, as I have heard
you mention, and now I verily thinks Bedlam will be your potion instead
of a husband."
"As far as I know I am now in my proper senses, (cried Roseline,
laughing,) notwithstanding your prognostics, and taking so much pains to
convince me of the contrary."
"Well, well, it may be so, miss, (replied the mortified damsel;) I know
but little of nostics; but this I do know, there is no recounting for
the humour of quality people. The young Baron however, it must be said,
if poor folks can see and judge, is to the full as good as his father.
Handsome as you think him, and though he cannot speak to make himself
understood, and do not know his right hand from his left, or the moon
from a green cheese or young gosling, he may soon be taught to know
what's what. He was monstrously frightened when he saw his father, and
took him for a negromancer it seems."
"You have been strangely misinformed, Audrey, (interrupted Roseline,)
the young lord is neither so ignorant not so soon alarmed as you have
been taught to believe. I have known him long, and therefore, if you
will rely upon my word, I assure you he is one of the most amiable and
best of human beings."
"Well, miss, (again continued Audrey,) I must think that your brain is
cracked, or that love has overset your understanding; for I am told by
Pedro, who knows every thing about every body, that, till this very
blessed day, the sweet young gentleman have been chained down in a
dungeon, and never looked upon the face of man, woman, or child, not
even the mother who bore him. It was tirely on his account, we all
thinks, that the bustle, fuss, and disturbations in the castle
riginated, and I dare say if the old Baron had refused to own him for a
son, we should every one of us have been witched into the Red Sea, and
drowned as the Gyptens were. I hope now, however, the spells will be
taken away, and we shall see only men and women, made of flesh and blood
like ourselves, for I hate ghosts."
"Amen! (cried Roseline;) I trust we shall be very quiet and happy, and
that neither witches nor evil spirits will have any thing to do with us."
"I say amen again, (replied Audrey,) for I always likes to pray whenever
I see any one else set about it. Thank God you escaped the claws of the
Baron: I verily thinks I could not have found courage enuf to have
married him myself."
Roseline rejoiced when her prating attendant bade her good night, and
she hoped soon to forget in the arms of sleep both the painful and
pleasant events of the day; but she now found joy as great an enemy to
repose as grief had been the preceding night. To find her lover, the
acknowledged son of her intended husband; yet to have his consent,--the
consent of her parents to love Walter, and be beloved by him,--to know
he was restored to liberty, rank, and fortune, to the protection of a
father, and herself released from an engagement to which she never had
consented,--it was such a sudden, such an unexpected reverse of fortune,
as she could scarcely prevail upon herself to believe real. She had been
assured too she should one day be the wife of Walter,--be permitted to
live with him,--see him always, and without fear or controul be allowed
to study and contribute to his happiness;--it was rapture, it was
felicity far beyond her hopes.
Having once entered on a train of thinking, so delightful to a fond
imagination, it effectually precluded sleep from shedding its poppies
over her pillow; besides, to have slept would have been for some hours
to have lost the pleasure of thinking of Walter.
No sooner did she see the god of day break forth in all his glory from
the portals of the east, than she quitted her bed. Never before had she
observed the sun so brilliant,--never before had the face of nature
looked so charming: every tree which she saw wave its branches had
acquired new beauties, and even the sturdy and impenetrable walls of the
castle seemed to be wonderfully improved.
With spirits harmonized by love and expectation, and a mind enlivened by
hope, she bent her knee in humble gratitude to that God who said, "Let
there be light, and it was so," With a heart truly sensible of the
blessings she enjoyed, and thankful for those she was permitted to
behold at a distance, she fervently prayed that neither Walter nor
herself might be tempted, in the midst of prosperity to forget the
useful lessons they had learned in the school of adversity.