“Master Edmund ordered me some beer, and went to acquaint my Lord of the
message; he stayed a while, and then came back to me.--‘John,’ said he,
‘tell the noble stranger that the Baron Fitz-Owen greets him well, and
desires him to rest assured, that though Lord Lovel is dead, and the
castle fallen into other hands, his friends will always find a welcome
there; and my lord desires that he will accept of a lodging there, while
he remains in this country.’--So I came away directly, and made haste to
deliver my errand.”
Sir Philip expressed some dissatisfaction at this mark of old Wyatt’s
respect.
“I wish,” said he, “that you had acquainted me with your intention
before you sent to inform the Baron I was here. I choose rather to lodge
with you; and I propose to make amends for the trouble I shall give
you.”
“Pray, sir, don’t mention it,” said the peasant, “you are as welcome as
myself; I hope no offence; the only reason of my sending was, because I
am both unable and unworthy to entertain your honour.”
“I am sorry,” said Sir Philip, “you should think me so dainty; I am
a Christian soldier; and him I acknowledge for my Prince and Master,
accepted the invitations of the poor, and washed the feet of his
disciples. Let us say no more on this head; I am resolved to stay this
night in your cottage, tomorrow I will wait on the Baron, and thank him
for his hospitable invitation.”
“That shall be as your honour pleases, since you will condescend to stay
here. John, do you run back and acquaint my Lord of it.”
“Not so,” said Sir Philip; “it is now almost dark.”
“‘Tis no matter,” said John, “I can go it blindfold.”
Sir Philip then gave him a message to the Baron in his own name,
acquainting him that he would pay his respects to him in the morning.
John flew back the second time, and soon returned with new commendations
from the Baron, and that he would expect him on the morrow. Sir Philip
gave him an angel of gold, and praised his speed and abilities.
He supped with Wyatt and his family upon new-laid eggs and rashers of
bacon, with the highest relish. They praised the Creator for His gifts,
and acknowledged they were unworthy of the least of His blessings.
They gave the best of their two lofts up to Sir Philip, the rest of the
family slept in the other, the old woman and her daughter in the bed,
the father and his two sons upon clean straw. Sir Philip’s bed was of
a better kind, and yet much inferior to his usual accommodations;
nevertheless the good knight slept as well in Wyatt’s cottage, as he
could have done in a palace.
During his sleep, many strange and incoherent dreams arose to his
imagination. He thought he received a message from his friend Lord
Lovel, to come to him at the castle; that he stood at the gate and
received him, that he strove to embrace him, but could not; but that he
spoke to this effect:--“Though I have been dead these fifteen years,
I still command here, and none can enter these gates without my
permission; know that it is I that invite, and bid you welcome; the
hopes of my house rest upon you.” Upon this he bid Sir Philip follow
him; he led him through many rooms, till at last he sunk down, and
Sir Philip thought he still followed him, till he came into a dark
and frightful cave, where he disappeared, and in his stead he beheld
a complete suit of armour stained with blood, which belonged to his
friend, and he thought he heard dismal groans from beneath. Presently
after, he thought he was hurried away by an invisible hand, and led into
a wild heath, where the people were inclosing the ground, and making
preparations for two combatants; the trumpet sounded, and a voice called
out still louder, “Forbear! It is not permitted to be revealed till
the time is ripe for the event; wait with patience on the decrees of
heaven.” He was then transported to his own house, where, going into an
unfrequented room, he was again met by his friend, who was living, and
in all the bloom of youth, as when he first knew him: He started at the
sight, and awoke. The sun shone upon his curtains, and, perceiving
it was day, he sat up, and recollected where he was. The images that
impressed his sleeping fancy remained strongly on his mind waking; but
his reason strove to disperse them; it was natural that the story he
had heard should create these ideas, that they should wait on him in his
sleep, and that every dream should bear some relation to his deceased
friend. The sun dazzled his eyes, the birds serenaded him and diverted
his attention, and a woodbine forced its way through the window, and
regaled his sense of smelling with its fragrance. He arose, paid his
devotions to Heaven, and then carefully descended the narrow stairs, and
went out at the door of the cottage. There he saw the industrious wife
and daughter of old Wyatt at their morning work, the one milking her
cow, the other feeding her poultry. He asked for a draught of milk,
which, with a slice of rye bread, served to break his fast. He walked
about the fields alone; for old Wyatt and his two sons were gone out to
their daily labour. He was soon called back by the good woman, who told
him that a servant from the Baron waited to conduct him to the Castle.
He took leave of Wyatt’s wife, telling her he would see her again before
he left the country. The daughter fetched his horse, which he mounted,
and set forward with the servant, of whom he asked many questions
concerning his master’s family.
“How long have you lived with the Baron?”
“Ten years.”
“Is he a good master?”
“Yes, Sir, and also a good husband and father.”
“What family has he?”
“Three sons and a daughter.”
“What age are they of?”
“The eldest son is in his seventeenth year, the second in his sixteenth,
the others several years younger; but beside these my Lord has several
young gentlemen brought up with his own sons, two of which are his
nephews; he keeps in his house a learned clerk to teach them languages;
and as for all bodily exercises, none come near them; there is a
fletcher to teach them the use of the cross-bow; a master to teach them
to ride; another the use of the sword; another learns them to dance; and
then they wrestle and run, and have such activity in all their motions,
that it does one good to see them; and my Lord thinks nothing too much
to bestow on their education.”
“Truly,” says Sir Philip, “he does the part of a good parent, and I
honour him greatly for it; but are the young gentlemen of a promising
disposition?”
“Yes indeed, Sir,” answered the servant; “the young gentlemen, my Lord’s
sons, are hopeful youths; but yet there is one who is thought to exceed
them all, though he is the son of a poor labourer.”
“And who is he?” said the knight.
“One Edmund Twyford, the son of a cottager in our village; he is to
be sure as fine a youth as ever the sun shone upon, and of so sweet a
disposition that nobody envies his good fortune.”
“What good fortune does he enjoy?”
“Why, Sir, about two years ago, my lord, at his sons request, took
him into his own family, and gives him the same education as his own
children; the young lords doat upon him, especially Master William, who
is about his own age: It is supposed that he will attend the young Lords
when they go to the wars, which my Lord intends they shall by and by.”
“What you tell me,” said Sir Philip, “increases every minute my respect
for your Lord; he is an excellent father and master, he seeks out merit
in obscurity; he distinguishes and rewards it,--I honour him with all my
heart.”
In this manner they conversed together till they came within view of
the castle. In a field near the house they saw a company of youths, with
crossbows in their hands, shooting at a mark.
“There,” said the servant, “are our young gentlemen at their exercises.”
Sir Philip stopped his horse to observe them; he heard two or three of
them cry out, “Edmund is the victor! He wins the prize!”
“I must,” said Sir Philip, “take a view of this Edmund.”
He jumped off his horse, gave the bridle to the servant, and walked into
the field. The young gentlemen came up, and paid their respects to him;
he apologized for intruding upon their sports, and asked which was
the victor? Upon which the youth he spoke to beckoned to another, who
immediately advanced, and made his obeisance; As he drew near, Sir
Philip fixed his eyes upon him, with so much attention, that he seemed
not to observe his courtesy and address. At length he recollected
himself, and said, “What is your name, young man?”
“Edmund Twyford,” replied the youth; “and I have the honour to attend
upon the Lord Fitz-Owen’s sons.”
“Pray, noble sir,” said the youth who first addressed Sir Philip, “are
not you the stranger who is expected by my father?”
“I am, sir,” answered he, “and I go to pay my respects to him.”
“Will you excuse our attendance, Sir? We have not yet finished our
exercises.”
“My dear youth,” said Sir Philip, “no apology is necessary; but will you
favour me with your proper name, that I may know to whose courtesy I am
obliged?”
“My name is William Fitz-Owen; that gentleman is my eldest brother,
Master Robert; that other my kinsman, Master Richard Wenlock.”
“Very well; I thank you, gentle Sir; I beg you not to stir another step,
your servant holds my horse.”
“Farewell, Sir,” said Master William; “I hope we shall have the pleasure
of meeting you at dinner.”
The youths returned to their sports, and Sir Philip mounted his horse
and proceeded to the castle; he entered it with a deep sigh, and
melancholy recollections. The Baron received him with the utmost respect
and courtesy. He gave a brief account of the principal events that had
happened in the family of Lovel during his absence; he spoke of the late
Lord Lovel with respect, of the present with the affection of a brother.
Sir Philip, in return, gave a brief recital of his own adventures
abroad, and of the disagreeable circumstances he had met with since his
return home; he pathetically lamented the loss of all his friends, not
forgetting that of his faithful servant on the way; saying he could be
contented to give up the world, and retire to a religious house, but
that he was withheld by the consideration, that some who depended
entirely upon him, would want his presence and assistance; and, beside
that, he thought he might be of service to many others. The Baron agreed
with him in opinion, that a man was of much more service to the world
who continued in it, than one who retired from it, and gave his fortune
to the Church, whose servants did not always make the best use of it.
Sir Philip then turned the conversation, and congratulated the Baron
on his hopeful family; he praised their persons and address, and warmly
applauded the care he bestowed on their education. The Baron listened
with pleasure to the honest approbation of a worthy heart, and enjoyed
the true happiness of a parent.
Sir Philip then made further enquiry concerning Edmund, whose appearance
had struck him with an impression in his favour.
“That boy,” said the Baron, “is the son of a cottager in this
neighbourhood; his uncommon merit, and gentleness of manners,
distinguish him from those of his own class; from his childhood he
attracted the notice and affection of all that knew him; he was beloved
everywhere but at his father’s house, and there it should seem that his
merits were his crimes; for the peasant, his father, hated him, treated
him severely, and at length threatened to turn him out of doors; he
used to run here and there on errands for my people, and at length they
obliged me to take notice of him; my sons earnestly desired I would take
him into my family; I did so about two years ago, intending to make him
their servant; but his extraordinary genius and disposition have obliged
me to look upon him in a superior light; perhaps I may incur the censure
of many people, by giving him so many advantages, and treating him
as the companion of my children; his merit must justify or condemn my
partiality for him; however, I trust that I have secured to my children
a faithful servant of the upper kind, and a useful friend to my family.”
Sir Philip warmly applauded his generous host, and wished to be a sharer
in his bounty to that fine youth, whose appearance indicated all the
qualities that had endeared him to his companions.
At the hour of dinner the young men presented themselves before their
Lord, and his guest. Sir Philip addressed himself to Edmund; he asked
him many questions, and received modest and intelligent answers, and
he grew every minute more pleased with him. After dinner the youths
withdrew with their tutor to pursue their studies. Sir Philip sat for
some time wrapt up in meditation. After some minutes, the Baron
asked him, “If he might not be favoured with the fruits of his
contemplations?”
“You shall, my Lord,” answered he, “for you have a right to them. I was
thinking, that when many blessings are lost, we should cherish those
that remain, and even endeavour to replace the others. My Lord, I have
taken a strong liking to that youth whom you call Edmund Twyford; I
have neither children nor relations to claim my fortune, nor share my
affections; your Lordship has many demands upon your generosity: I can
provide for this promising youth without doing injustice to any one;
will you give him to me?”
“He is a fortunate boy,” said the Baron, “to gain your favour so soon.”
“My Lord,” said the knight, “I will confess to you, that the first thing
that touched my heart in his favour, is a strong resemblance he bears to
a certain dear friend I once had, and his manner resembles him as much
as his person; his qualities deserve that he should be placed in a
higher rank; I will adopt him for my son, and introduce him into the
world as my relation, if you will resign him to me; What say you?”
“Sir,” said the Baron, “you have made a noble offer, and I am too much
the young man’s friend to be a hindrance to his preferment. It is true
that I intended to provide for him in my own family; but I cannot do it
so effectually as by giving him to you, whose generous affection being
unlimited by other ties, may in time prefer him to a higher station as
he shall deserve it. I have only one condition to make; that the lad
shall have his option; for I would not oblige him to leave my service
against his inclination.”
“You say well,” replied Sir Philip; “nor would I take him upon other
terms.”
“Agreed then,” said the Baron; “let us send for Edmund hither.”
A servant was sent to fetch him; he came immediately, and his Lord
thus bespoke him.
“Edmund, you owe eternal obligations to this gentleman, who, perceiving
in you a certain resemblance to a friend of his, and liking your
behaviour, has taken a great affection for you, insomuch that he desires
to receive you into his family: I cannot better provide for you than by
disposing of you to him; and, if you have no objection, you shall return
home with him when he goes from hence.”
The countenance of Edmund underwent many alterations during this
proposal of his Lord; it expressed tenderness, gratitude, and sorrow,
but the last was predominant; he bowed respectfully to the Baron and Sir
Philip, and, after some hesitation, spoke as follows:--
“I feel very strongly the obligations I owe to this gentleman, for
his noble and generous offer; I cannot express the sense I have of his
goodness to me, a peasant boy, only known to him by my Lord’s kind and
partial mention; this uncommon bounty claims my eternal gratitude. To
you, my honoured Lord, I owe every thing, even this gentleman’s good
opinion; you distinguished me when nobody else did; and, next to you,
your sons are my best and dearest benefactors; they introduced me to
your notice. My heart is unalterably attached to this house and family,
and my utmost ambition is to spend my life in your service; but if you
have perceived any great and grievous faults in me, that make you wish
to put me out of your family, and if you have recommended me to this
gentleman in order to be rid of me, in that case I will submit to your
pleasure, as I would if you should sentence me to death.”
During this speech the tears made themselves channels down Edmund’s
cheeks; and his two noble auditors, catching the tender inflection, wiped
their eyes at the conclusion.
“My dear child,” said the Baron, “you overcome me by your tenderness and
gratitude! I know of no faults you have committed, that I should wish to
be rid of you. I thought to do you the best service by promoting you to
that of Sir Philip Harclay, who is both able and willing to provide for
you; but if you prefer my service to his, I will not part with you.”
Upon this Edmund kneeled to the Baron; he embraced his knees. “My dear
Lord! I am, and will be your servant, in preference to any man living; I
only ask your permission to live and die in your service.”
“You see, Sir Philip,” said the Baron, “how this boy engages the heart;
how can I part with him?”
“I cannot ask you any more,” answered Sir Philip, “I see it is
impossible; but I esteem you both still higher than ever; the youth
for his gratitude, and your lordship for your noble mind and true
generosity; blessings attend you both!”
“Oh, sir,” said Edmund, pressing the hand of Sir Philip, “do not think
me ungrateful to you; I will ever remember your goodness, and pray to
Heaven to reward it: the name of Sir Philip Harclay shall be engraven
upon my heart, next to my Lord and his family, for ever.”
Sir Philip raised the youth and embraced him, saying, “If ever you want
a friend, remember me; and depend upon my protection, so long as you
continue to deserve it.”
Edmund bowed low, and withdrew, with his eyes full of tears of
sensibility and gratitude. When he was gone, Sir Philip said, “I am
thinking, that though young Edmund wants not my assistance at present,
he may hereafter stand in need of my friendship. I should not wonder
if such rare qualities as he possesses, should one day create envy,
and raise him enemies; in which case he might come to lose your favour,
without any fault of yours or his own.”
“I am obliged to you for the warning,” said the Baron, “I hope it will
be unnecessary; but if ever I part with Edmund, you shall have the
refusal of him.”
“I thank your Lordship for all your civilities to me,” said the knight;
“I leave my best wishes with you and your hopeful family, and I humbly
take my leave.”
“Will you not stay one night in the castle?” returned my Lord; “you
shall be as welcome a guest as ever.”
“I acknowledge your goodness and hospitality, but this house fills me
with melancholy recollections; I came hither with a heavy heart, and it
will not be lighter while I remain here. I shall always remember your
lordship with the highest respect and esteem; and I pray God to preserve
you, and increase your blessings!”
After some further ceremonies, Sir Philip departed, and returned to old
Wyatt’s, ruminating on the vicissitude of human affairs, and thinking on
the changes he had seen.
At his return to Wyatt’s cottage, he found the family assembled
together. He told them he would take another night’s lodging there,
which they heard with great pleasure;--for he had familiarised himself
to them in the last evening’s conversation, insomuch that they began to
enjoy his company. He told Wyatt of the misfortune he had sustained by
losing his servant on the way, and wished he could get one to attend
him home in his place. Young John looked earnestly at his father, who
returned a look of approbation.
“I perceive one in this company,” said he, “that would be proud to serve
your honour; but I fear he is not brought up well enough.”
John coloured with impatience; he could not forbear speaking.
“Sir, I can answer for an honest heart, a willing mind, and a light pair
of heels; and though I am somewhat awkward, I shall be proud to learn,
to please my noble master, if he will but try me.”
“You say well,” said Sir Philip, “I have observed your qualifications,
and if you are desirous to serve me, I am equally pleased with you; if
your father has no objection I will take you.”
“Objection, sir!” said the old man; “it will be my pride to prefer him
to such a noble gentleman; I will make no terms for him, but leave it to
your honour to do for him as he shall deserve.”
“Very well,” said Sir Philip, “you shall be no loser by that; I will
charge myself with the care of the young man.”
The bargain was struck, and Sir Philip purchased a horse for John of
the old man. The next morning they set out; the knight left marks of his
bounty with the good couple, and departed, laden with their blessing and
prayers. He stopped at the place where his faithful servant was buried,
and caused masses to be said for the repose of his soul; then, pursuing
his way by easy journeys, arrived in safety at home. His family rejoiced
at his return; he settled his new servant in attendance upon his person;
he then looked round his neighbourhood for objects of his charity; when
he saw merit in distress, it was his delight to raise and support it; he
spent his time in the service of his Creator, and glorified him in doing
good to his creatures. He reflected frequently upon every thing that had
befallen him in his late journey to the west; and, at his leisure, took
down all the particulars in writing.
*****
[Here follows an interval of four years, as by the manuscript; and this
omission seems intended by the writer. What follows is in a different
hand, and the character is more modern.]
*****
ABOUT this time the prognostics of Sir Philip Harclay began to be
verified, that Edmund’s good qualities might one day excite envy and
create him enemies. The sons and kinsmen of his patron began to seek
occasion to find fault with him, and to depreciate him with others. The
Baron’s eldest son and heir, Master Robert, had several contests with
Master William, the second son, upon his account: This youth had a warm
affection for Edmund, and whenever his brother and kinsmen treated him
slightly, he supported him against their malicious insinuations. Mr.
Richard Wenlock, and Mr. John Markham, were the sisters sons of the Lord
Fitz-Owen; and there were several other more distant relations, who,
with them, secretly envied Edmund’s fine qualities, and strove to lessen
him in the esteem of the Baron and his family. By degrees they excited
a dislike in Master Robert, that in time was fixed into habit, and fell
little short of aversion.
Young Wenlock’s hatred was confirmed by an additional circumstance: He
had a growing passion for the Lady Emma, the Baron’s only daughter;
and, as love is eagle-eyed, he saw, or fancied he saw her cast an eye of
preference on Edmund. An accidental service that she received from
him, had excited her grateful regards and attentions towards him. The
incessant view of his fine person and qualities, had perhaps improved
her esteem into a still softer sensation, though she was yet ignorant of
it, and thought it only the tribute due to gratitude and friendship.
One Christmas time, the Baron and all his family went to visit a family
in Wales; crossing a ford, the horse that carried the Lady Emma, who
rode behind her cousin Wenlock, stumbled and fell down, and threw her
off into the water: Edmund dismounted in a moment, and flew to her
assistance; he took her out so quick, that the accident was not known
to some part of the company. From this time Wenlock strove to undermine
Edmund in her esteem, and she conceived herself obliged in justice
and gratitude to defend him against the malicious insinuations of
his enemies. She one day asked Wenlock, why he in particular should
endeavour to recommend himself to her favour, by speaking against
Edmund, to whom she was under great obligations? He made but little
reply; but the impression sunk deep into his rancorous heart; every word
in Edmund’s behalf was like a poisoned arrow that rankled in the
wound, and grew every day more inflamed. Sometimes he would pretend to
extenuate Edmund’s supposed faults, in order to load him with the sin
of ingratitude upon other occasions. Rancour works deepest in the heart
that strives to conceal it; and, when covered by art, frequently puts on
the appearance of candour. By these means did Wenlock and Markham impose
upon the credulity of Master Robert and their other relations: Master
William only stood proof against all their insinuations.
The same autumn that Edmund completed his eighteenth year, the Baron
declared his intention of sending the young men of his house to France
the following spring, to learn the art of war, and signalize their
courage and abilities.
Their ill-will towards Edmund was so well concealed, that his patron
had not discovered it; but it was whispered among the servants, who are
generally close observers of the manners of their principals. Edmund
was a favourite with them all, which was a strong presumption that he
deserved to be so, for they seldom shew much regard to dependents, or
to superiour domestics, who are generally objects of envy and dislike.
Edmund was courteous, but not familiar with them; and, by this means,
gained their affections without soliciting them. Among them was an old
serving man, called Joseph Howel; this man had formerly served the old
Lord Lovel, and his son; and when the young Lord died, and Sir Walter
sold the castle to his brother-in-law, the Lord Fitz-Owen, he only of
all the old servants was left in the house, to take care of it, and to
deliver it into the possession of the new proprietor, who retained him
in his service: He was a man of few words, but much reflection: and,
without troubling himself about other people’s affairs, went silently
and properly about his own business; more solicitous to discharge his
duty, than to recommend himself to notice, and not seeming to aspire to
any higher office than that of a serving man. This old man would fix his
eyes upon Edmund, whenever he could do it without observation; sometimes
he would sigh deeply, and a tear would start from his eye, which he
strove to conceal from observation. One day Edmund surprised him in this
tender emotion, as he was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand:
“Why,” said he, “my good friend, do you look at me so earnestly and
affectionately?”
“Because I love you, Master Edmund,” said he; “because I wish you well.”
“I thank you kindly,” answered Edmund; “I am unable to repay your love,
otherwise than by returning it, which I do sincerely.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the old man; “that is all I desire, and more
than I deserve.”
“Do not say so,” said Edmund; “if I had any better way to thank you, I
would not say so much about it; but words are all my inheritance.”
Upon this he shook hands with Joseph, who withdrew hastily to conceal
his emotion, saying, “God bless you, master, and make your fortune
equal to your deserts! I cannot help thinking you were born to a higher
station than what you now hold.”
“You know to the contrary,” said Edmund; but Joseph was gone out of
sight and hearing.
The notice and observation of strangers, and the affection of
individuals, together with that inward consciousness that always attends
superiour qualities, would sometimes kindle the flames of ambition in
Edmund’s heart; but he checked them presently by reflecting upon his
low birth and dependant station. He was modest, yet intrepid; gentle and
courteous to all; frank and unreserved to those that loved him, discreet
and complaisant to those who hated him; generous and compassionate
to the distresses of his fellow-creatures in general; humble, but not
servile, to his patron and superiors. Once, when he with a manly spirit
justified himself against a malicious imputation, his young Lord,
Robert, taxed him with pride and arrogance to his kinsmen. Edmund denied
the charge against him with equal spirit and modesty. Master Robert
answered him sharply, “How dare you contradict my cousins? do you mean
to give them the lie?”
“Not in words, Sir,” said Edmund; “but I will behave so as that you
shall not believe them.”
Master Robert haughtily bid him be silent and know himself, and not
presume to contend with men so much his superiors in every respect.
These heart-burnings in some degree subsided by their preparations for
going to France. Master Robert was to be presented at court before his
departure, and it was expected that he should be knighted. The Baron
designed Edmund to be his esquire; but this was frustrated by his
old enemies, who persuaded Robert to make choice of one of his own
domestics, called Thomas Hewson; him did they set up as a rival to
Edmund, and he took every occasion to affront him. All that Master
Robert gained by this step was the contempt of those, who saw Edmund’s
merit, and thought it want of discernment in him not to distinguish
and reward it. Edmund requested of his Lord that he might be Master
William’s attendant; “and when,” said he, “my patron shall be knighted,
as I make no doubt he will one day be, he has promised that I shall be
his esquire.” The Baron granted Edmund’s request; and, being freed from
servitude to the rest, he was devoted to that of his beloved Master
William, who treated him in public as his principal domestic, but in
private as his chosen friend and brother.
The whole cabal of his enemies consulted together in what manner they
should vent their resentment against him; and it was agreed that they
should treat him with indifference and neglect, till they should arrive
in France; and when there, they should contrive to render his courage
suspected, and by putting him upon some desperate enterprize, rid
themselves of him for ever. About this time died the great Duke of
Bedford, to the irreparable loss of the English nation. He was succeeded
by Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, as Regent of France, of which
great part had revolted to Charles the Dauphin. Frequent actions ensued.
Cities were lost and won; and continual occasions offered to exercise
the courage, and abilities, of the youths of both nations.
The young men of Baron Fitz-Owen’s house were recommended particularly
to the Regent’s notice. Master Robert was knighted, with several other
young men of family, who distinguished themselves by their spirit and
activity upon every occasion. The youth were daily employed in warlike
exercises, and frequent actions; and made their first essay in arms in
such a manner as to bring into notice all that deserved it. Various a
but all their contrivances recoiled upon themselves, and brought
increase of honour upon Edmund’s head; he distinguished himself upon
so many occasions, that Sir Robert himself began to pay him more than
ordinary regard, to the infinite mortification of his kinsmen and
relations. They laid many schemes against him, but none took effect.
[From this place the characters in the manuscript are effaced by time
and damp. Here and there some sentences are legible, but not sufficient
to pursue the thread of the story. Mention is made of several actions in
which the young men were engaged--that Edmund distinguished himself
by intrepidity in action; by gentleness, humanity and modesty in the
cessations--that he attracted the notice of every person of observation,
and also that he received personal commendation from the Regent.]
*****
[The following incidents are clear enough to be transcribed; but the
beginning of the next succeeding pages is obliterated. However, we may
guess at the beginning by what remains.]
*****
As soon as the cabal met in Sir Robert’s tent, Mr. Wenlock thus
began:--“You see, my friends, that every attempt we make to humble this
upstart, turns into applause, and serves only to raise his pride still
higher. Something must be done, or his praise will go home before us,
at our own expence; and we shall seem only soils to set off his glories.
Any thing would I give to the man who should execute our vengeance upon
him.”
“Stop there, cousin Wenlock,” said Sir Robert; “though I think Edmund
proud and vain-glorious, and would join in any scheme to humble him,
and make him know himself, I will not suffer any man to use such base
methods to effect it. Edmund is brave; and it is beneath an Englishman
to revenge himself by unworthy means; if any such are used, I will be
the first man to bring the guilty to justice; and if I hear another word
to this purpose, I will inform my brother William, who will acquaint
Edmund with your mean intentions.” Upon this the cabal drew back, and
Mr. Wenlock protested that he meant no more than to mortify his pride,
and make him know his proper station. Soon after Sir Robert withdrew,
and they resumed their deliberations.
Then spoke Thomas Hewson: “There is a party to be sent out to-morrow
night, to intercept a convoy of provisions for the relief of Rouen;
I will provoke Mr. Edmund to make one of this party, and when he is
engaged in the action, I and my companions will draw off, and leave him
to the enemy, who I trust will so handle him, that you shall no more be
troubled with him.”
“This will do,” said Mr. Wenlock; “but let it be kept from my two
cousins, and only known to ourselves; if they offer to be of the party,
I will persuade them off it. And you, Thomas, if you bring this scheme
to a conclusion, may depend upon my eternal gratitude.”
“And mine,” said Markham; and so said all. The next day the affair was
publicly mentioned; and Hewson, as he promised, provoked Edmund to the
trial. Several young men of family offered themselves; among the rest,
Sir Robert, and his brother William. Mr. Wenlock persuaded them not to
go, and set the danger of the enterprize in the strongest colours. At
last Sir Robert complained of the tooth-ache, and was confined to his
tent. Edmund waited on him; and judging by the ardour of his own courage
of that of his patron, thus bespoke him:--“I am greatly concerned, dear
Sir, that we cannot have your company at night; but as I know what you
will suffer in being absent, I would beg the favour of you to let me use
your arms and device, and I will promise not to disgrace them.”
“No, Edmund, I cannot consent to that: I thank you for your noble offer,
and will remember it to your advantage; but I cannot wear honours of
another man’s getting. You have awakened me to a sense of my duty: I
will go with you, and contend with you for glory; and William shall do
the same.”
In a few hours they were ready to set out. Wenlock and Markham, and
their dependants, found themselves engaged in honour to go upon an
enterprize they never intended; and set out, with heavy hearts, to join
the party. They marched in silence in the horrors of a dark night,
and wet roads; they met the convoy where they expected, and a sharp
engagement ensued. The victory was some time doubtful; but the moon
rising on the backs of the English, gave them the advantage. They saw
the disposition of their enemies, and availed themselves of it. Edmund
advanced the foremost of the party; he drew out the leader on the French
side; he slew him. Mr. William pressed forward to assist his friend; Sir
Robert, to defend his brother; Wenlock, and Markham, from shame to stay
behind.
Thomas Hewson and his associates drew back on their side; the French
perceived it, and pursued the advantage. Edmund pushed them in front;
the young nobles all followed him; they broke through the detachment,
and stopped the waggons. The officer who commanded the party, encouraged
them to go on; the defeat was soon complete, and the provisions carried
in triumph to the English camp.
Edmund was presented to the Regent as the man to whom the victory was
chiefly owing. Not a tongue presumed to move itself against him; even
malice and envy were silenced.
“Approach, young man,” said the Regent, “that I may confer upon you the
honour of knighthood, which you have well deserved.”
Mr. Wenlock could no longer forbear speaking--“Knighthood,” said he,
“is an order belonging to gentlemen, it cannot be conferred on a
peasant.”
“What say you, sir!” returned the Regent; “is this youth a peasant?”
“He is,” said Wenlock; “let him deny it if he can.”
Edmund, with a modest bow, replied, “It is true indeed I am a peasant,
and this honour is too great for me; I have only done my duty.”
The Duke of York, whose pride of birth equalled that of any man living
or dead, sheathed his sword immediately. “Though,” said he, “I cannot
reward you as I intended, I will take care that you shall have a large
share in the spoils of this night; and, I declare publicly, that you
stand first in the list of gallant men in this engagement.”
Thomas Hewson and his associates made a poor figure in their return;
they were publicly reproved for their backwardness. Hewson was wounded
in body and more in mind, for the bad success of his ill-laid design.
He could not hold up his head before Edmund; who, unconscious of their
malice, administered every kind of comfort to them. He spoke in their
behalf to the commanding officer, imputing their conduct to unavoidable
accidents. He visited them privately; he gave them a part of the spoils
allotted to himself; by every act of valour and courtesy he strove to
engage those hearts that hated, envied, and maligned him: But where
hatred arises from envy of superior qualities, every display of those
qualities increases the cause from whence it arises.
[Another pause ensues here.]
The young nobles and gentlemen who distinguished Edmund were prevented
from raising him to preferment by the insinuations of Wenlock and his
associates, who never failed to set before them his low descent, and his
pride and arrogance in presuming to rank with gentlemen.
[Here the manuscript is not legible for several pages. There is mention,
about this time, of the death of the Lady Fitz-Owen, but not the cause.]
Wenlock rejoiced to find that his schemes took effect, and that they
should be recalled at the approach of winter. The Baron was glad of
a pretence to send for them home; for he could no longer endure the
absence of his children, after the loss of their mother.
[The manuscript is again defaced for many leaves; at length the letters
become more legible, and the remainder of it is quite perfect.]
From the time the young men returned from France, the enemies of Edmund
employed their utmost abilities to ruin him in the Baron’s opinion, and
get him dismissed from the family. They insinuated a thousand things
against him, that happened, as they said, during his residence in
France, and therefore could not be known to his master; but when the
Baron privately enquired of his two elder sons, he found there was no
truth in their reports. Sir Robert, though he did not love him, scorned
to join in untruths against him. Mr. William spoke of him with the
warmth of fraternal affection. The Baron perceived that his kinsmen
disliked Edmund; but his own good heart hindered him from seeing the
baseness of theirs. It is said, that continual dropping will wear away a
stone; so did their incessant reports, by insensible degrees, produce a
coolness in his patron’s behaviour towards him. If he behaved with manly
spirit, it was misconstrued into pride and arrogance; his generosity
was imprudence; his humility was hypocrisy, the better to cover his
ambition. Edmund bore patiently all the indignities that were thrown
upon him; and, though he felt them severely in his bosom, scorned to
justify his conduct at the expence even of his enemies. Perhaps his
gentle spirit might at length have sunk under this treatment, but
providence interposed in his behalf; and, by seemingly accidental
circumstances, conducted him imperceptibly towards the crisis of his
fate.
Father Oswald, who had been preceptor to the young men, had a strong
affection for Edmund, from a thorough knowledge of his heart; he saw
through the mean artifices that were used to undermine him in his
patron’s favour; he watched their machinations, and strove to frustrate
their designs.
This good man used frequently to walk out with Edmund; they conversed
upon various subjects; and the youth would lament to him the unhappiness
of his situation, and the peculiar circumstances that attended him.
The father, by his wholesome advice, comforted his drooping heart,
and confirmed him in his resolution of bearing unavoidable evils with
patience and fortitude, from the consciousness of his own innocence, and
the assurance of a future and eternal reward.
One day, as they were walking in a wood near the castle, Edmund asked
the father, what meant those preparations for building, the cutting down
trees, and burning of bricks?
“What,” said Oswald, “have you not heard that my Lord is going to build
a new apartment on the west side of the castle?”
“And why,” said Edmund, “should my Lord be at that expence when there is
one on the east side that is never occupied?”
“That apartment,” said the friar, “you must have observed is always shut
up.”
“I have observed it often,” said Edmund; “but I never presumed to ask
any questions about it.”
“You had then,” said Oswald, “less curiosity, and more discretion, than
is common at your age.”
“You have raised my curiosity,” said Edmund; “and, if it be not
improper, I beg of you to gratify it.”
“We are alone,” said Oswald, “and I am so well assured of your prudence,
that I will explain this mystery in some degree to you.”
“You must know, that apartment was occupied by the last Lord Lovel when
he was a batchelor. He married in his father’s lifetime, who gave up his
own apartment to him, and offered to retire to this himself; but the son
would not permit him; he chose to sleep here, rather than in any other.
He had been married about three months, when his father, the old lord,
died of a fever. About twelve months after his marriage, he was called
upon to attend the King, Henry the Fourth, on an expedition into Wales,
whither he was attended by many of his dependants. He left his lady big
with child, and full of care and anxiety for his safety and return.
“After the King had chastised the rebels, and obtained the victory, the
Lord Lovel was expected home every day; various reports were sent home
before him; one messenger brought an account of his health and safety;
soon after another came with bad news, that he was slain in battle. His
kinsman, Sir Walter Lovel, came here on a visit to comfort the Lady; and
he waited to receive his kinsman at his return. It was he that brought
the news of the sad event of the battle to the Lady Lovel.
“She fainted away at the relation; but, when she revived, exerted the
utmost resolution; saying, it was her duty to bear this dreadful stroke
with Christian fortitude and patience, especially in regard to the
child she went with, the last remains of her beloved husband, and the
undoubted heir of a noble house. For several days she seemed an example
of patience and resignation; but then, all at once, she renounced them,
and broke out into passionate and frantic exclamations; she said, that
her dear lord was basely murdered; that his ghost had appeared to her,
and revealed his fate. She called upon Heaven and earth to revenge her
wrongs; saying, she would never cease complaining to God, and the King,
for vengeance and justice.
“Upon this, Sir Walter told the servants that Lady Lovel was distracted,
from grief for the death of her Lord; that his regard for her was as
strong as ever; and that, if she recovered, he would himself be her
comforter, and marry her. In the mean time she was confined in this very
apartment, and in less than a month the poor Lady died. She lies buried
in the family vault in St. Austin’s church in the village. Sir Walter
took possession of the castle, and all the other estates, and assumed
the title of Lord Lovel.
“Soon after, it was reported that the castle was haunted, and that the
ghosts of Lord and Lady Lovel had been seen by several of the servants.
Whoever went into this apartment were terrified by uncommon noises, and
strange appearances; at length this apartment was wholly shut up, and
the servants were forbid to enter it, or to talk of any thing relating
to it: However, the story did not stop here; it was whispered about,
that the new Lord Lovel was so disturbed every night, that he could
not sleep in quiet; and, being at last tired of the place, he sold
the castle and estate of his ancestors, to his brother-in-law the Lord
Fitz-Owen, who now enjoys it, and left this country.”
“All this is news to me,” said Edmund; “but, father, tell me what
grounds there were for the lady’s suspicion that her lord died
unfairly?”
“Alas!” said Oswald, “that is only known to God. There were strange
thoughts in the minds of many at that time; I had mine; but I will
not disclose them, not even to you. I will not injure those who may be
innocent; and I leave it to Providence, who will doubtless, in its own
best time and manner, punish the guilty. But let what I have told you be
as if you had never heard it.”
“I thank you for these marks of your esteem and confidence,” said
Edmund; “be assured that I will not abuse them; nor do I desire to
pry into secrets not proper to be revealed. I entirely approve your
discretion, and acquiesce in your conclusion, that Providence will in
its own time vindicate its ways to man; if it were not for that trust,
my situation would be insupportable. I strive earnestly to deserve the
esteem and favour of good men; I endeavour to regulate my conduct so as
to avoid giving offence to any man; but I see, with infinite pain, that
it is impossible for me to gain these points.”
“I see it too, with great concern,” said Oswald; “and every thing that I
can say and do in your favour is misconstrued; and, by seeking to do you
service, I lose my own influence. But I will never give my sanction to
acts of injustice, nor join to oppress innocence. My dear child, put
your trust in God: He who brought light out of darkness, can bring good
out of evil.”
“I hope and trust so,” said Edmund; “but, father, if my enemies should
prevail--if my lord should believe their stories against me, and I
should be put out of the house with disgrace, what will become of me?
I have nothing but my character to depend upon; if I lose that, I lose
every thing; and I see they seek no less than my ruin.”
“Trust in my lord’s honour and justice,” replied Oswald; “he knows your
virtue, and he is not ignorant of their ill-will towards you.”
“I know my lord’s justice too well to doubt it,” said Edmund; “but
would it not be better to rid him of this trouble, and his family of an
incumbrance? I would gladly do something for myself, but cannot without
my lord’s recommendation; and, such is my situation, that I fear the
asking for a dismission would be accounted base ingratitude; beside,
when I think of leaving this house, my heart saddens at the thought, and
tells me I cannot be happy out of it; yet I think I could return to a
peasant’s life with cheerfulness, rather than live in a palace under
disdain and contempt.”
“Have patience a little longer, my son,” said Oswald; “I will think
of some way to serve you, and to represent your grievances to my lord,
without offence to either--perhaps the causes may be removed. Continue
to observe the same irreproachable conduct; and be assured that Heaven
will defend your innocence, and defeat the unjust designs of your
enemies. Let us now return home.”
About a week after this conference, Edmund walked out in the fields
ruminating on the disagreeable circumstances of his situation.
Insensible of the time, he had been out several hours without perceiving
how the day wore away, when he heard himself called by name several
times; looking backward, he saw his friend Mr. William, and hallooed
to him. He came running towards him; and, leaping over the style, stood
still a while to recover his breath.
“What is the matter, sir?” said Edmund; “your looks bespeak some tidings
of importance.”
With a look of tender concern and affection, the youth pressed his hand
and spoke--
“My dear Edmund, you must come home with me directly; your old enemies
have united to ruin you with my father; my brother Robert has declared
that he thinks there will be no peace in our family till you are
dismissed from it, and told my father, he hoped he would not break with
his kinsmen rather than give up Edmund.”
“But what do they lay to my charge?” said Edmund.
“I cannot rightly understand,” answered William, “for they make a great
mystery of it; something of great consequence, they say; but they will
not tell me what: However, my father has told them that they must bring
their accusation before your face, and he will have you answer them
publicly. I have been seeking you this hour, to inform you of this, that
you might be prepared to defend yourself against your accusers.”
“God reward you, sir,” said Edmund, “for all your goodness to me! I
see they are determined to ruin me if possible: I shall be compelled to
leave the castle; but, whatever becomes of me, be assured you shall have
no cause to blush for your kindness and partiality to your Edmund.”
“I know it, I am sure of it,” said William; “and here I swear to you, as
Jonathan did to David, I beseech Heaven to bless me, as my friendship to
you shall be steady and inviolable!”
“Only so long as I shall deserve so great a blessing,” interrupted
Edmund.
“I know your worth and honour,” continued William; “and such is my
confidence in your merit, that I firmly believe Heaven designs you for
something extraordinary; and I expect that some great and unforeseen
event will raise you to the rank and station to which you appear to
belong: Promise me, therefore, that whatever may be your fate you will
preserve the same friendship for me that I bear to you.”
Edmund was so much affected that he could not answer but in broken
sentences.
“Oh my friend, my master! I vow, I promise, my heart promises!”
He kneeled down with clasped hands, and uplifted eyes. William kneeled
by him, and they invoked the Supreme to witness to their friendship,
and implored His blessing upon it. They then rose up and embraced each
other, while tears of cordial affection bedewed their cheeks.
As soon as they were able to speak, Edmund conjured his friend not to
expose himself to the displeasure of his family out of kindness to him.
“I submit to the will of Heaven,” said he; “I wait with patience its
disposal of me; if I leave the castle, I will find means to inform you
of my fate and fortunes.”
“I hope,” said William, “that things may yet be accommodated; but do not
take any resolution, let us act as occasions arise.”
In this manner these amiable youths conferred, till they arrived at the
castle. The Baron was sitting in the great hall, on a high chair with a
footstep before, with the state and dignity of a judge; before him stood
Father Oswald, as pleading the cause for himself and Edmund. Round the
Baron’s chair stood his eldest son and his kinsmen, with their principal
domestics. The old servant, Joseph, at some distance, with his head
leaning forward, as listening with the utmost attention to what passed.
Mr. William approached the chair. “My Lord, I have found Edmund, and
brought him to answer for himself.”
“You have done well,” said the Baron. “Edmund, come hither; you are
charged with some indiscretions, for I cannot properly call them crimes:
I am resolved to do justice between you and your accusers; I shall
therefore hear you as well as them; for no man ought to be condemned
unheard.”
“My lord,” said Edmund, with equal modesty and intrepidity, “I demand my
trial; if I shall be found guilty of any crimes against my Benefactor,
let me be punished with the utmost rigour; But if, as I trust, no such
charge can be proved against me, I know your goodness too well to doubt
that you will do justice to me, as well as to others; and if it should
so happen that by the misrepresentations of my enemies (who have
long sought my ruin privately, and now avow it publicly), if by their
artifices your lordship should be induced to think me guilty, I would
submit to your sentence in silence, and appeal to another tribunal.”
“See,” said Mr. Wenlock, “the confidence of the fellow! he already
supposes that my lord must be in the wrong if he condemns him; and then
this meek creature will appeal to another tribunal. To whose will he
appeal? I desire he may be made to explain himself.”
“That I will immediately,” said Edmund, “without being compelled. I only
meant to appeal to Heaven that best knows my innocence.”
“‘Tis true,” said the Baron, “and no offence to any one; man can only
judge by appearances, but Heaven knows the heart; Let every one of
you bear this in mind, that you may not bring a false accusation, nor
justify yourselves by concealing the truth. Edmund, I am informed that
Oswald and you have made very free with me and my family, in some of
your conversations; you were heard to censure me for the absurdity of
building a new apartment on the west side of the castle, when there was
one on the east side uninhabited. Oswald said, that apartment was shut
up because it was haunted; that some shocking murder had been committed
there; adding many particulars concerning Lord Lovel’s family, such as
he could not know the truth of, and, if he had known, was imprudent
to reveal. But, further, you complained of ill-treatment here; and
mentioned an intention to leave the castle, and seek your fortune
elsewhere. I shall examine into all these particulars in turn. At
present I desire you, Edmund, to relate all that you can remember of
the conversation that passed between you and Oswald in the wood last
Monday.”
“Good God!” said Edmund, “is it possible that any person could put such
a construction upon so innocent a conversation?”
“Tell me then,” said the Baron, “the particulars of it.”
“I will, my lord, as nearly as my memory will allow me.” Accordingly he
related most of the conversation that passed in the wood; but, in the
part that concerned the family of Lovel, he abbreviated as much as
possible. Oswald’s countenance cleared up, for he had done the same
before Edmund came. The Baron called to his eldest son.
“You hear, Sir Robert, what both parties say; I have questioned them
separately; neither of them knew what the other would answer, yet their
accounts agree almost to a word.”
“I confess they do so,” answered Sir Robert; “but, sir, it is very bold
and presuming for them to speak of our family affairs in such a manner;
if my uncle, Lord Lovel, should come to know it, he would punish them
severely; and, if his honour is reflected upon, it becomes us to resent
and to punish it.” Here Mr. Wenlock broke out into passion, and offered
to swear to the truth of his accusation.
“Be silent, Dick,” said the Baron; “I shall judge for myself. I
protest,” said he to Sir Robert, “I never heard so much as Oswald has now
told me concerning the deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel; I think it is
best to let such stories alone till they die away of themselves. I had,
indeed, heard of an idle story of the east apartment’s being haunted,
when first I came hither, and my brother advised me to shut it up till
it should be forgotten; but what has now been said, has suggested a
thought that may make that apartment useful in future. I have thought of
a punishment for Edmund that will stop the mouth of his accusers for
the present; and, as I hope, will establish his credit with every body.
Edmund, will you undertake this adventure for me?”
“What adventure, my Lord,” said Edmund? “There is nothing I would not
undertake to shew my gratitude and fidelity to you. As to my courage, I
would shew that at the expence of my malicious accusers, if respect to
my Lord’s blood did not tie up my hands; as I am situated, I beg it may
be put to the proof in whatever way is most for my master’s service.”
“That is well said,” cried the Baron; “as to your enemies, I am thinking
how to separate you from them effectually; of that I shall speak
hereafter. I am going to try Edmund’s courage; he shall sleep three
nights in the east apartment, that he may testify to all whether it be
haunted or not; afterwards I will have that apartment set in order, and
my eldest son shall take it for his own; it will spare me some expence,
and answer my purpose as well, or better; Will you consent, Edmund?”
“With all my heart, my Lord,” said Edmund, “I have not wilfully offended
God or man; I have, therefore, nothing to fear.”
“Brave boy!” said my Lord; “I am not deceived in you, nor shall you
be deceived in your reliance on me. You shall sleep in that apartment
to-night, and to-morrow I will have some private talk with you. Do you,
Oswald, go with me; I want to have some conversation with you. The rest
of you, retire to your studies and business; I will meet you at dinner.”
Edmund retired to his own chamber, and Oswald was shut up with the
Baron; he defended Edmund’s cause and his own, and laid open as much as
he knew of the malice and designs of his enemies. The Baron expressed
much concern at the untimely deaths of Lord and Lady Lovel, and
desired Oswald to be circumspect in regard to what he had to say of the
circumstances attending them; adding, that he was both innocent and
ignorant of any treachery towards either of them. Oswald excused himself
for his communications to Edmund, saying, they fell undesignedly into
the subject, and that he mentioned it in confidence to him only.
The Baron sent orders to the young men to come to dinner; but they
refused to meet Edmund at table; accordingly he ate in the steward’s
apartment. After dinner, the Baron tried to reconcile his kinsmen to
Edmund; but found it impossible. They saw their designs were laid open;
and, judging of him by themselves, thought it impossible to forgive or
be forgiven. The Baron ordered them to keep in separate apartments; he
took his eldest son for his own companion, as being the most reasonable
of the malcontents; and ordered his kinsmen to keep their own apartment,
with a servant to watch their motions. Mr. William had Oswald for his
companion. Old Joseph was bid to attend on Edmund; to serve him
at supper; and, at the hour of nine, to conduct him to the haunted
apartment. Edmund desired that he might have a light and his sword,
lest his enemies should endeavour to surprise him. The Baron thought his
request reasonable, and complied with it.
There was a great search to find the key of the apartment; at last it
was discovered by Edmund, himself, among a parcel of old rusty keys in
a lumber room. The Baron sent the young men their suppers to their
respective apartments. Edmund declined eating, and desired to be
conducted to his apartment. He was accompanied by most of the servants
to the door of it; they wished him success, and prayed for him as if he
had been going to execution.
The door was with great difficulty unlocked, and Joseph gave Edmund a
lighted lamp, and wished him a good night; he returned his good wishes
to them all with the utmost cheerfulness, took the key on the inside of
the door, and dismissed them.
He then took a survey of his chamber; the furniture, by long neglect,
was decayed and dropping to pieces; the bed was devoured by the moths,
and occupied by the rats, who had built their nests there with impunity
for many generations. The bedding was very damp, for the rain had forced
its way through the ceiling; he determined, therefore, to lie down in
his clothes. There were two doors on the further side of the room, with
keys in them; being not at all sleepy, he resolved to examine them;
he attempted one lock, and opened it with ease; he went into a large
dining-room, the furniture of which was in the same tattered condition;
out of this was a large closet with some books in it, and hung round
with coats of arms, with genealogies and alliances of the house of
Lovel; he amused himself here some minutes, and then returned into the
bed-chamber.
He recollected the other door, and resolved to see where it led to; the
key was rusted into the lock, and resisted his attempts; he set the lamp
on the ground, and, exerting all his strength, opened the door, and at
the same instant the wind of it blew out the lamp, and left him in utter
darkness. At the same moment he heard a hollow rustling noise, like that
of a person coming through a narrow passage. Till this moment not one
idea of fear had approached the mind of Edmund; but, just then, all the
concurrent circumstances of his situation struck upon his heart, and
gave him a new and disagreeable sensation. He paused a while; and,
recollecting himself, cried out aloud. “What should I fear? I have not
wilfully offended God or man; why then should I doubt protection? But I
have not yet implored the divine assistance; how then can I expect
it!” Upon this, he kneeled down and prayed earnestly, resigning himself
wholly to the will of heaven; while he was yet speaking, his courage
returned, and he resumed his usual confidence; again he approached the
door from whence the noise proceeded; he thought he saw a glimmering
light upon a staircase before him. “If,” said he, “this apartment is
haunted, I will use my endeavours to discover the cause of it; and if
the spirit appears visibly, I will speak to it.”
He was preparing to descend the staircase, when he heard several knocks
at the door by which he first entered the room; and, stepping backward,
the door was clapped to with great violence. Again fear attacked him,
but he resisted it, and boldly cried out, “Who is there?”
A voice at the outer door answered, “It’s I; Joseph, your friend!”
“What do you want?” said Edmund.
“I have brought you some wood to make a fire,” said Joseph.
“I thank you kindly,” said Edmund; “but my lamp is gone out; I will try
to find the door, however.”
After some trouble he found, and opened it; and was not sorry to see his
friend Joseph, with a light in one hand, a flagon of beer in the other,
and a fagot upon his shoulder. “I come,” said the good old man, “to
bring you something to keep up your spirits; the evening is cold; I know
this room wants airing; and beside that, my master, I think your present
undertaking requires a little assistance.”
“My good friend,” said Edmund, “I never shall be able to deserve or
requite your kindness to me.”
“My dear sir, you always deserved more than I could do for you; and I
think I shall yet live to see you defeat the designs of your enemies,
and acknowledge the services of your friends.”
“Alas!” said Edmund, “I see little prospect of that!”
“I see,” said Joseph, “something that persuades me you are designed for
great things; and I perceive that things are working about to some great
end: have courage, my Master, my heart beats strangely high upon your
account!”
“You make me smile,” said Edmund.
“I am glad to see it, sir; may you smile all the rest of your life!”
“I thank your honest affection,” returned Edmund, “though it is too
partial to me. You had better go to bed, however; if it is known that
you visit me here, it will be bad for us both.”
“So I will presently; but, please God, I will come here again to-morrow
night, when all the family are a-bed; and I will tell you some things
that you never yet heard.”
“But pray tell me,” said Edmund, “where does that door lead to?”
“Upon a passage that ends in a staircase that leads to the lower rooms;
and there is likewise a door out of that passage into the dining-room.”
“And what rooms are there below stairs,” said Edmund?
“The same as above,” replied he.
“Very well; then I wish you a good night, we will talk further
to-morrow.”
“Aye, to-morrow night; and in this place, my dear master.”
“Why do you call me your master? I never was, nor ever can be, your
master.”
“God only knows that,” said the good old man; “good-night, and heaven
bless you!”
“Good-night, my worthy friend!”
Joseph withdrew, and Edmund returned to the other door, and attempted
several times to open it in vain; his hands were benumbed and tired; at
length he gave over. He made a fire in the chimney, placed the lamp on a
table, and opened one of the window-shutters to admit the day-light;
he then recommended himself to the Divine protection, and threw himself
upon the bed; he presently fell asleep, and continued in that state,
till the sun saluted him with his orient beams through the window he had
opened.
As soon as he was perfectly awake, he strove to recollect his dreams.
He thought that he heard people coming up the staircase that he had a
glimpse of; that the door opened, and there entered a warrior, leading a
lady by the hand, who was young and beautiful, but pale and wan; The man
was dressed in complete armour, and his helmet down. They approached
the bed; they undrew the curtains. He thought the man said, “Is this our
child?” The woman replied, “It is; and the hour approaches that he shall
be known for such.” They then separated, and one stood on each side
of the bed; their hands met over his head, and they gave him a solemn
benediction. He strove to rise and pay them his respects, but they
forbad him; and the lady said, “Sleep in peace, oh my Edmund! for
those who are the true possessors of this apartment are employed in
thy preservation; sleep on, sweet hope of a house that is thought past
hope!”