entered, and he heard them descend the stairs. After this, he followed
a funeral as chief mourner; he saw the whole procession, and heard the
ceremonies performed. He was snatched away from this mournful scene to
one of a contrary kind, a stately feast, at which he presided; and
he heard himself congratulated as a husband, and a father; his
friend William sat by his side; and his happiness was complete. Every
succeeding idea was happiness without allay; and his mind was not idle
a moment till the morning sun awakened him. He perfectly remembered his
dreams, and meditated on what all these things should portend. “Am I
then,” said he, “not Edmund Twyford, but somebody of consequence in
whose fate so many people are interested? Vain thought, that must have
arisen from the partial suggestion of my two friends, Mr. William and
old Joseph.”
He lay thus reflecting, when a servant knocked at his door, and told him
it was past six o’clock, and that the Baron expected him to breakfast in
an hour. He rose immediately; paid his tribute of thanks to heaven for
its protection, and went from his chamber in high health and spirits. He
walked in the garden till the hour of breakfast, and then attended the
Baron.
“Good morrow, Edmund!” said he; “how have you rested in your new
apartment?”
“Extremely well, my lord,” answered he.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the Baron; “but I did not know your
accommodations were so bad, as Joseph tells me they are.”
“‘Tis of no consequence,” said Edmund; “if they were much worse, I could
dispense with them for three nights.”
“Very well,” said the Baron; “you are a brave lad; I am satisfied with
you, and will excuse the other two nights.”
“But, my lord, I will not be excused; no one shall have reason to
suspect my courage; I am determined to go through the remaining nights
upon many accounts.”
“That shall be as you please,” said my Lord. “I think of you as you
deserve; so well, that I shall ask your advice by and by in some affairs
of consequence.”
“My life and services are yours, my lord; command them freely.”
“Let Oswald be called in,” said my Lord; “he shall be one of our
consultation.” He came; the servants were dismissed; and the Baron spoke
as follows:
“Edmund, when first I took you into my family, it was at the request of
my sons and kinsmen; I bear witness to your good behaviour, you have not
deserved to lose their esteem; but, nevertheless, I have observed
for some years past, that all but my son William have set their faces
against you; I see their meanness, and I perceive their motives: but
they are, and must be, my relations; and I would rather govern them by
love, than fear. I love and esteem your virtues: I cannot give you up
to gratify their humours. My son William has lost the affections of the
rest, for that he bears to you; but he has increased my regard for him;
I think myself bound in honour to him and you to provide for you; I
cannot do it, as I wished, under my own roof. If you stay here, I see
nothing but confusion in my family; yet I cannot put you out of it
disgracefully. I want to think of some way to prefer you, that you may
leave this house with honour; and I desire both of you to give me your
advice in this matter. If Edmund will tell me in what way I can employ
him to his own honour and my advantage, I am ready to do it; let him
propose it, and Oswald shall moderate between us.”
Here he stopped; and Edmund, whose sighs almost choked him, threw
himself at the Baron’s feet, and wet his hand with his tears: “Oh, my
noble, generous benefactor! do you condescend to consult such a one as
me upon the state of your family? does your most amiable and beloved son
incur the ill-will of his brothers and kinsmen for my sake? What am I,
that I should disturb the peace of this noble family? Oh, my lord, send
me away directly! I should be unworthy to live, if I did not earnestly
endeavour to restore your happiness. You have given me a noble
education, and I trust I shall not disgrace it. If you will recommend
me, and give me a character, I fear not to make my own fortune.”
The Baron wiped his eyes; “I wish to do this, my child, but in what way?”
“My lord,” said Edmund, “I will open my heart to you. I have served with
credit in the army, and I should prefer a soldier’s life.”
“You please me well,” said the Baron; “I will send you to France, and
give you a recommendation to the Regent; he knows you personally, and
will prefer you, for my sake, and for your own merit.”
“My lord, you overwhelm me with your goodness! I am but your creature,
and my life shall be devoted to your service.”
“But,” said the Baron, “how to dispose of you till the spring?”
“That,” said Oswald, “may be thought of at leisure; I am glad that you
have resolved, and I congratulate you both.” The Baron put an end to the
conversation by desiring Edmund to go with him into the menage to see
his horses. He ordered Oswald to acquaint his son William with all that
had passed, and to try to persuade the young men to meet Edmund and
William at dinner.
The Baron took Edmund with him into his menage to see some horses he had
lately purchased; while they were examining the beauties and defects
of these noble and useful animals, Edmund declared that he preferred
Caradoc, a horse he had broke himself, to any other in my lord’s
stables. “Then,” said the Baron, “I will give him to you; and you shall
go upon him to seek your fortune.” He made new acknowledgments for this
gift, and declared he would prize it highly for the giver’s sake. “But
I shall not part with you yet,” said my lord; “I will first carry all my
points with these saucy boys, and oblige them to do you justice.”
“You have already done that,” said Edmund; “and I will not suffer any
of your Lordship’s blood to undergo any farther humiliation upon my
account. I think, with humble submission to your better judgment, the
sooner I go hence the better.”
While they were speaking, Oswald came to them, and said, that the young
men had absolutely refused to dine at the table, if Edmund was present.
“‘Tis well,” said the Baron; “I shall find a way to punish their
contumacy hereafter; I will make them know that I am the master here.
Edmund and you, Oswald, shall spend the day in my apartment above
stairs. William shall dine with me alone; and I will acquaint him with
our determination; my son Robert, and his cabal, shall be prisoners in
the great parlour. Edmund shall, according to his own desire, spend this
and the following night in the haunted apartment; and this for his sake,
and my own; for if I should now contradict my former orders, it would
subject us both to their impertinent reflections.”
He then took Oswald aside, and charged him not to let Edmund go out of
his sight; for if he should come in the way of those implacable enemies,
he trembled for the consequences. He then walked back to the stables,
and the two friends returned into the house.
They had a long conversation on various subjects; in the course of it,
Edmund acquainted Oswald with all that had passed between him and Joseph
the preceding night, the curiosity he had raised in him, and his promise
to gratify it the night following.
“I wish,” said Oswald, “you would permit me to be one of your party.”
“How can that be?” said Edmund; “we shall be watched, perhaps; and, if
discovered, what excuse can you make for coming there? Beside, if it
were known, I shall be branded with the imputation of cowardice; and,
though I have borne much, I will not promise to bear that patiently.”
“Never fear,” replied Oswald, “I will speak to Joseph about it; and,
after prayers are over and the family gone to bed, I will steal away
from my own chamber and come to you. I am strongly interested in your
affairs; and I cannot be easy unless you will receive me into your
company; I will bind myself to secrecy in any manner you shall enjoin.”
“Your word is sufficient,” said Edmund; “I have as much reason to trust
you, father, as any man living; I should be ungrateful to refuse you any
thing in my power to grant; But suppose the apartment should really be
haunted, would you have resolution enough to pursue the adventure to a
discovery?”
“I hope so,” said Oswald; “but have you any reason to believe it is?”
“I have,” said Edmund; “but I have not opened my lips upon this subject
to any creature but yourself. This night I purpose, if Heaven permit,
to go all over the rooms; and, though I had formed this design, I will
confess that your company will strengthen my resolution. I will have no
reserves to you in any respect; but I must put a seal upon your lips.”
Oswald swore secrecy till he should be permitted to disclose the
mysteries of that apartment; and both of them waited, in solemn
expectation, the event of the approaching night.
In the afternoon Mr. William was allowed to visit his friend. An
affecting interview passed between them. He lamented the necessity of
Edmund’s departure; and they took a solemn leave of each other, as if
they foreboded it would be long ere they should meet again.
About the same hour as the preceding evening, Joseph came to conduct
Edmund to his apartment.
“You will find better accommodations than you had last night,” said he,
“and all by my lord’s own order.”
“I every hour receive some new proof of his goodness,” said Edmund.
When they arrived, he found a good fire in the chamber, and a table
covered with cold meats, and a flagon of strong beer.
“Sit down and get your supper, my dear Master,” said Joseph: “I must
attend my Lord; but as soon as the family are gone to bed, I will visit
you again.”
“Do so,” said Edmund; “but first, see Father Oswald; he has something to
say to you. You may trust him, for I have no reserves to him.”
“Well, Sir, I will see him if you desire it; and I will come to you as
soon as possible.” So saying, he went his way, and Edmund sat down to
supper.
After a moderate refreshment, he kneeled down, and prayed with the
greatest fervency. He resigned himself to the disposal of Heaven: “I
am nothing,” said he, “I desire to be nothing but what thou, O Lord,
pleasest to make me. If it is thy will that I should return to my former
obscurity, be it obeyed with cheerfulness; and, if thou art pleased to
exalt me, I will look up to thee, as the only fountain of honour and
dignity.” While he prayed, he felt an enlargement of heart beyond what
he had ever experienced before; all idle fears were dispersed, and his
heart glowed with divine love and affiance;--he seemed raised above the
world and all its pursuits. He continued wrapt up in mental devotion,
till a knocking at the door obliged him to rise, and let in his two
friends, who came without shoes, and on tiptoe, to visit him.
“Save you, my son!” said the friar; “you look cheerful and happy.”
“I am so, father,” said Edmund; “I have resigned myself to the disposal
of Heaven, and I find my heart strengthened above what I can express.”
“Heaven be praised!” said Oswald: “I believe you are designed for great
things, my son.”
“What! do you too encourage my ambition?” says Edmund; “strange
concurrence of circumstances!--Sit down, my friends; and do you, my
good Joseph, tell me the particulars you promised last night.” They drew
their chairs round the fire, and Joseph began as follows:--
“You have heard of the untimely death of the late Lord Lovel, my noble
and worthy master; perhaps you may have also heard that, from that time,
this apartment was haunted. What passed the other day, when my Lord
questioned you both on this head, brought all the circumstances fresh
into my mind. You then said, there were suspicions that he came not
fairly to his end. I trust you both, and will speak what I know of it.
There was a person suspected of this murder; and whom do you think it
was?”
“You must speak out,” said Oswald.
“Why then,” said Joseph, “it was the present Lord Lovel.”
“You speak my thoughts,” said Oswald; “but proceed to the proofs.”
“I will,” said Joseph.
“From the time that my lord’s death was reported, there were strange
whisperings and consultations between the new lord and some of the
servants; there was a deal of private business carried on in this
apartment. Soon after, they gave out that my poor lady was distracted;
but she threw out strong expressions that savoured nothing of madness.
She said, that the ghost of her departed lord had appeared to her, and
revealed the circumstances of this murder. None of the servants, but
one, were permitted to see her. At this very time, Sir Walter, the new
lord, had the cruelty to offer love to her; he urged her to marry him;
and one of her women overheard her say, she would sooner die than give
her hand to the man who caused the death of her Lord; Soon after
this, we were told my Lady was dead. The Lord Lovel made a public and
sumptuous funeral for her.”
“That is true,” said Oswald; “for I was a novice, and assisted at it.”
“Well,” says Joseph, “now comes my part of the story. As I was coming
home from the burial, I overtook Roger our ploughman. Said he, What
think you of this burying?--‘What should I think,’ said I, ‘but that we
have lost the best Master and Lady that we shall ever know?’ ‘God, He
knows,’ quoth Roger, ‘whether they be living or dead; but if ever I
saw my Lady in my life, I saw her alive the night they say she died.’ I
tried to convince him that he was mistaken; but he offered to take his
oath, that the very night they said she died, he saw her come out at the
garden gate into the fields; that she often stopped, like a person in
pain, and then went forward again until he lost sight of her. Now it is
certain that her time was out, and she expected to lie down every day;
and they did not pretend that she died in child-bed. I thought upon
what I heard, but nothing I said. Roger told the same story to another
servant; so he was called to an account, the story was hushed up, and
the foolish fellow said, he was verily persuaded it was her ghost that
he saw. Now you must take notice that, from this time, they began to
talk about, that this apartment was troubled; and not only this, but
at last the new Lord could not sleep in quiet in his own room; and this
induced him to sell the castle to his brother-in-law, and get out of
this country as fast as possible. He took most of the servants away with
him, and Roger among the rest. As for me, they thought I knew nothing,
and so they left me behind; but I was neither blind nor deaf, though I
could hear, and see, and say nothing.”
“This is a dark story,” said Oswald.
“It is so,” said Edmund; “but why should Joseph seem to think it
concerns me in particular?”
“Ah, dear Sir,” said Joseph, “I must tell you, though I never uttered it
to mortal man before; the striking resemblance this young man bears to
my dear Lord, the strange dislike his reputed father took to him, his
gentle manners, his generous heart, his noble qualities so uncommon in
those of his birth and breeding, the sound of his voice--you may smile
at the strength of my fancy, but I cannot put it out of my mind but that
he is my own master’s son.”
At these words Edmund changed colour and trembled; he clapped his hand
upon his breast, and looked up to Heaven in silence; his dream recurred
to his memory, and struck upon his heart. He related it to his attentive
auditors.
“The ways of Providence are wonderful,” said Oswald. “If this be so,
Heaven in its own time will make it appear.”
Here a silence of several minutes ensued; when, suddenly, they were
awakened from their reverie by a violent noise in the rooms underneath
them. It seemed like the clashing of arms, and something seemed to fall
down with violence.
They started, and Edmund rose up with a look full of resolution and
intrepidity.
“I am called!” said he; “I obey the call!”
He took up a lamp, and went to the door that he had opened the night
before. Oswald followed with his rosary in his hand, and Joseph last
with trembling steps. The door opened with ease, and they descended the
stairs in profound silence.
The lower rooms answered exactly to those above; there were two parlours
and a large closet. They saw nothing remarkable in these rooms, except
two pictures, that were turned with their faces to the wall. Joseph took
the courage to turn them. “These,” said he, “are the portraits of my
lord and lady. Father, look at this face; do you know who is like it?”
“I should think,” said Oswald, “it was done for Edmund!”
“I am,” said Edmund, “struck with the resemblance myself; but let us go
on; I feel myself inspired with unusual courage. Let us open the closet
door.”
Oswald stopped him short.
“Take heed,” said he, “lest the wind of the door put out the lamp. I
will open this door.”
He attempted it without success; Joseph did the same, but to no purpose;
Edmund gave the lamp to Joseph; he approached the door, tried the key,
and it gave way to his hand in a moment.
“This adventure belongs,” said he, “to me only; that is plain--bring the
lamp forward.”
Oswald repeated the paternoster, in which they all joined, and then
entered the closet.
The first thing that presented itself to their view, was a complete suit
of armour, that seemed to have fallen down on an heap.
“Behold!” said Edmund; “this made the noise we heard above.” They took
it up, and examined it piece by piece; the inside of the breast plate
was stained with blood.
“See here!” said Edmund; “what think you of this?”
“‘Tis my Lord’s armour,” said Joseph; “I know it well--here has been
bloody work in this closet!”
Going forward, he stumbled over something; it was a ring with the arms
of Lovel engraved upon it.
“This is my Lord’s ring,” said Joseph; “I have seen him wear it; I give
it to you, sir, as the right owner; and most religiously do I believe
you his son.”
“Heaven only knows that,” said Edmund; “and, if it permits, I will know
who was my father before I am a day older.”
While he was speaking, he shifted his ground, and perceived that the
boards rose up on the other side of the closet; upon farther examination
they found that the whole floor was loose, and a table that stood over
them concealed the circumstance from a casual observer.
“I perceive,” said Oswald, “that some great discovery is at hand.”
“God defend us!” said Edmund, “but I verily believe that the person that
owned this armour lies buried under us.”
Upon this, a dismal hollow groan was heard, as if from underneath. A
solemn silence ensued, and marks of fear were visible upon all three;
the groan was thrice heard; Oswald made signs for them to kneel, and he
prayed audibly, that Heaven would direct them how to act; he also prayed
for the soul of the departed, that it might rest in peace. After this,
he arose; but Edmund continued kneeling--he vowed solemnly to devote
himself to the discovery of this secret, and the avenging the death of
the person there buried. He then rose up. “It would be to no purpose,”
said he, “for us to examine further now; when I am properly authorised,
I will have this place opened; I trust that time is not far off.”
“I believe it,” said Oswald; “you are designed by Heaven to be its
instrument in bringing this deed of darkness to light. We are your
creatures; only tell us what you would have us do, and we are ready to
obey your commands.”
“I only demand your silence,” said Edmund, “till I call for your
evidence; and then, you must speak all you know, and all you suspect.”
“Oh,” said Joseph, “that I may but live to see that day, and I shall
have lived long enough!”
“Come,” said Edmund, “let us return up stairs, and we will consult
further how I shall proceed.”
So saying, he went out of the closet, and they followed him. He locked
the door, and took the key out--“I will keep this,” said he, “till I
have power to use it to purpose, lest any one should presume to pry into
the secret of this closet. I will always carry it about me, to remind me
of what I have undertaken.”
Upon this, they returned up stairs into the bed-chamber; all was still,
and they heard nothing more to disturb them. “How,” said Edmund, “is
it possible that I should be the son of Lord Lovel? for, however
circumstances have seemed to encourage such a notion, what reason have I
to believe it?”
“I am strangely puzzled about it,” said Oswald. “It seems unlikely that
so good a man as Lord Lovel should corrupt the wife of a peasant, his
vassal; and, especially, being so lately married to a lady with whom he
was passionately in love.”
“Hold there!” said Joseph; “my lord was incapable of such an action; If
Master Edmund is the son of my lord, he is also the son of my lady.”
“How can that be,” said Edmund?
“I don’t know how,” said Joseph; “but there is a person who can tell if
she will; I mean Margery Twyford, who calls herself your mother.”
“You meet my thoughts,” said Edmund; “I had resolved, before you spoke,
to visit her, and to interrogate her on the subject; I will ask my
Lord’s permission to go this very day.”
“That is right,” said Oswald; “but be cautious and prudent in your
enquiries.”
“If you,” said Edmund, “would bear me company, I should do better; she
might think herself obliged to answer your questions; and, being
less interested in the event, you would be more discreet in your
interrogations.”
“That I will most readily,” said he; “and I will ask my lord’s
permission for us both.”
“This point is well determined,” said Joseph; “I am impatient for
the result; and I believe my feet will carry me to meet you whether I
consent or not.”
“I am as impatient as you,” said Oswald; “but let us be silent as
the grave, and let not a word or look indicate any thing knowing or
mysterious.”
The daylight began to dawn upon their conference; and Edmund, observing
it, begged his friends to withdraw in silence. They did so, and left
Edmund to his own recollections. His thoughts were too much employed for
sleep to approach him; he threw himself upon the bed, and lay meditating
how he should proceed; a thousand schemes offered themselves and were
rejected; But he resolved, at all events, to leave Baron Fitz-Owen’s
family the first opportunity that presented itself.
He was summoned, as before, to attend my lord at breakfast; during
which, he was silent, absent, and reserved. My Lord observed it, and
rallied him; enquiring how he had spent the night?
“In reflecting upon my situation, my Lord; and in laying plans for my
future conduct.” Oswald took the hint, and asked permission to visit
Edmund’s mother in his company, and acquaint her with his intentions
of leaving the country soon. He consented freely; but seemed unresolved
about Edmund’s departure.
They set out directly, and Edmund went hastily to old Twyford’s cottage,
declaring that every field seemed a mile to him. “Restrain your warmth,
my son,” said Oswald; “compose your mind, and recover your breath,
before you enter upon a business of such consequence.” Margery met them
at the door, and asked Edmund, what wind blew him thither?
“Is it so very surprising,” said he, “that I should visit my parents?”
“Yes, it is,” said she, “considering the treatment you have met with
from us; but since Andrew is not in the house, I may say I am glad to
see you; Lord bless you, what a fine youth you be grown! ‘Tis a long
time since I saw you; but that is not my fault; many a cross word,
and many a blow, have I had on your account; but I may now venture to
embrace my dear child.”
Edmund came forward and embraced her fervently; the starting tears,
on both sides, evinced their affection. “And why,” said he, “should
my father forbid you to embrace your child? what have I ever done to
deserve his hatred?”
“Nothing, my dear boy! you were always good and tender-hearted, and
deserved the love of every body.”
“It is not common,” said Edmund, “for a parent to hate his first-born
son without his having deserved it.”
“That is true,” said Oswald; “it is uncommon, it is unnatural; nay, I
am of opinion it is almost impossible. I am so convinced of this truth,
that I believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund, cannot be his
father.” In saying this, he observed her countenance attentively; she
changed colour apparently. “Come,” said he, “let us sit down; and do
you, Margery, answer to what I have said.”
“Blessed Virgin!” said Margery, “what does your reverence mean? what do
you suspect?”
“I suspect,” said he, “that Edmund is not the son of Andrew your
husband.”
“Lord bless me!” said she, “what is it you do suspect?”
“Do not evade my question, woman! I am come here by authority to examine
you upon this point.”
The woman trembled every joint. “Would to Heaven!” said she, “that
Andrew was at home!”
“It is much better as it is,” said Oswald; “you are the person we are to
examine.”
“Oh, father,” said she, “do you think that I--that I--that I am to blame
in this matter? what have I done?”
“Do you, sir,” said he, “ask your own questions.”
Upon this, Edmund threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees.
“O my mother!” said he, “for as such my heart owns you, tell me for the
love of Heaven! tell me, who was my father?”
“Gracious Heaven!” said she, “what will become of me?”
“Woman!” said Oswald, “confess the truth, or you shall be compelled to
do it; by whom had you this youth?”
“Who, I?” said she; “I had him! No, father, I am not guilty of the black
crime of adultery; God, He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the
mother of such a sweet youth as that is.”
“You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his father?”
“Oh, what shall I do?” said Margery; “Andrew will be the death of me!”
“No, he shall not,” said Edmund; “you shall be protected and rewarded
for the discovery.”
“Goody,” said Oswald, “confess the whole truth, and I will protect
you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund’s
fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the
other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all
advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will
soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all
you know, and nobody will thank you for it.”
“Ah,” said she, “but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund;
and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him
again.”
“He knows it then?” said Oswald.
“He know it! Lord help you, it was all his own doing.”
“Tell us then,” said Oswald; “for Andrew shall never know it, till it is
out of his power to punish you.”
“‘Tis a long story,” said she, “and cannot be told in a few words.”
“It will never be told at this rate,” said he; “sit down and begin it
instantly.”
“My fate depends upon your words,” said Edmund; “my soul is impatient
of the suspense! If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and
tell while I have breath to ask it.”
He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally
expressive of his inward emotions.
“I will,” said she; “but I must try to recollect all the circumstances.
You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of
age.”
“On what day was he born,” said Oswald?
“The day before yesterday,” said she, “the 21st of September.”
“A remarkable era,” said he.
“‘Tis so, indeed,” said Edmund; “Oh, that night! that apartment!”
“Be silent,” said Oswald; “and do you, Margery, begin your story.”
“I will,” said she. “Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I
lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was
near my time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I was sitting all
alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; ‘See, Margery,’
said he, ‘I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.’
So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a
poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief,
and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace. ‘And where
did you find this?’ says I. ‘Upon the foot-bridge,’ says he, ‘just below
the clayfield. This child,’ said he, ‘belongs to some great folk, and
perhaps it may be enquired after one day, and may make our fortunes;
take care of it,’ said he, ‘and bring it up as if it was your own.’ The
poor infant was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so pitifully,
that I loved it; beside, my milk was troublesome to me, and I was glad
to be eased of it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I loved
the child as if it were my own, and so I do still if I dared to own it.”
“And this is all you know of Edmund’s birth?” said Oswald.
“No, not all,” said Margery; “but pray look out and see whether Andrew
is coming, for I am all over in a twitter.”
“He is not,” said Oswald; “go on, I beseech you!”
“This happened,” said she, “as I told you, on the 21st. On the morrow,
my Andrew went out early to work, along with one Robin Rouse, our
neighbour; they had not been gone above an hour, when they both came
back seemingly very much frightened. Says Andrew, ‘Go you, Robin, and
borrow a pickaxe at neighbour Styles’s.’ What is the matter now?’ said
I. ‘Matter enough!’ quoth Andrew; ‘we may come to be hanged, perhaps, as
many an innocent man has before us.’ ‘Tell me what is the matter,’ said
I. ‘I will,’ said he; ‘but if ever you open your mouth about it, woe be
to you!’ ‘I never will,’ said I; but he made me swear by all the blessed
saints in the Calendar; and then he told me, that, as Robin and he were
going over the foot-bridge, where he found the child the evening before,
they saw something floating upon the water; so they followed it, till it
stuck against a stake, and found it to be the dead body of a woman;
‘as sure as you are alive, Madge,’ said he, ‘this was the mother of the
child I brought home.’”
“Merciful God!” said Edmund; “am I the child of that hapless mother?”
“Be composed,” said Oswald; “proceed, good woman, the time is precious.”
“And so,” continued she, “Andrew told me they dragged the body out
of the river, and it was richly dressed, and must be somebody of
consequence. ‘I suppose,’ said he, ‘when the poor Lady had taken care
of her child, she went to find some help; and, the night being dark, her
foot slipped, and she fell into the river, and was drowned.’
“‘Lord have mercy!’ said Robin, ‘what shall we do with the dead body?
we may be taken up for the murder; what had we to do to meddle with it?’
‘Ay, but,’ says Andrew, ‘we must have something to do with it now; and
our wisest way is to bury it.’ Robin was sadly frightened, but at last
they agreed to carry it into the wood, and bury it there; so they came
home for a pickaxe and shovel. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘Andrew, but will you
bury all the rich clothes you speak of?’ ‘Why,’ said he, ‘it would be
both a sin and a shame to strip the dead.’ ‘So it would,’ said I; ‘but
I will give you a sheet to wrap the body in, and you may take off her
upper garments, and any thing of value; but do not strip her to the skin
for any thing.’ ‘Well said, wench!’ said he; ‘I will do as you say.’ So
I fetched a sheet, and by that time Robin was come back, and away they
went together.
“They did not come back again till noon, and then they sat down and ate
a morsel together. Says Andrew, ‘Now we may sit down and eat in peace.’
‘Aye,’ says Robin, ‘and sleep in peace too, for we have done no harm.’
‘No, to be sure,’ said I; ‘but yet I am much concerned that the poor
Lady had not Christian burial.’ ‘Never trouble thyself about that,’ said
Andrew; ‘we have done the best we could for her; but let us see what we
have got in our bags; we must divide them.’ So they opened their bags,
and took out a fine gown and a pair of rich shoes; but, besides these,
there was a fine necklace with a golden locket, and a pair of earrings.
Says Andrew, and winked at me, ‘I will have these, and you may take the
rest.’ Robin said, he was satisfied, and so he went his way. When he was
gone, ‘Here, you fool,’ says Andrew, ‘take these, and keep them as safe
as the bud of your eye; If ever young master is found, these will make
our fortune.’”
“And have you them now?” said Oswald.
“Yes, that I have,” answered she; “Andrew would have sold them long ago,
but I always put him off it.”
“Heaven be praised!” said Edmund.
“Hush,” said Oswald, “let us not lose time; proceed, Goody!”
“Nay,” said Margery, “I have not much more to say. We looked every day
to hear some enquiries after the child, but nothing passed, nobody was
missing.”
“Did nobody of note die about that time?” said Oswald.
“Why yes,” said Margery, “the widow Lady Lovel died that same week;
by the same token, Andrew went to the funeral, and brought home a
scutcheon, which I keep unto this day.”
“Very well; go on.”
“My husband behaved well enough to the boy, till such time as he had two
or three children of his own; and then he began to grumble, and say, it
was hard to maintain other folks’ children, when he found it hard enough
to keep his own; I loved the boy quite as well as my own; often and
often have I pacified Andrew, and made him to hope that he should
one day or other be paid for his trouble; but at last he grew out of
patience, and gave over all hopes of that kind.
“As Edmund grew up, he grew sickly and tender, and could not bear hard
labour; and that was another reason why my husband could not bear with
him. ‘If,’ quoth he, ‘the boy could earn his living, I did not care;
but I must bear all the expence.[‘] There came an old pilgrim into our
parts; he was a scholar, and had been a soldier, and he taught Edmund
to read; then he told him histories of wars, and knights, and lords, and
great men; and Edmund took such delight in hearing him, that he would
not take to any thing else.
“To be sure, Edwin was a pleasant companion; he would tell old stories,
and sing old songs, that one could have sat all night to hear him; but,
as I was a saying, Edmund grew more and more fond of reading, and less
of work; however, he would run of errands, and do many handy turns for
the neighbours; and he was so courteous a lad, that people took notice
of him. Andrew once catched him alone reading, and then told him, that
if he did not find some way to earn his bread, he would turn him out of
doors in a very short time; and so he would have done, sure enough, if
my Lord Fitz-Owen had not taken him into his service just in the nick.”
“Very well, Goody,” said Oswald; “you have told your story very well; I
am glad, for Edmund’s sake, that you can do it so properly. But now, can
you keep a secret?”
“Why, an’t please your reverence, I think I have shewed you that I can.”
“But can you keep it from your husband?”
“Aye,” said she, “surely I can; for I dare not tell it him.”
“That is a good security,” said he; “but I must have a better. You must
swear upon this book not to disclose any thing that has passed between
us three, till we desire you to do it. Be assured you will soon be
called upon for this purpose; Edmund’s birth is near the discovery; He
is the son of parents of high degree; and it will be in his power to
make your fortune, when he takes possession of his own.”
“Holy Virgin! what is it you tell me? How you rejoice me to hear, that
what I have so long prayed for will come to pass!”
She took the oath required, saying it after Oswald.
“Now,” said he, “go and fetch the tokens you have mentioned.”
When she was gone, Edmund’s passions, long suppressed, broke out in
tears and exclamations; he kneeled down, and, with his hands clasped
together, returned thanks to Heaven for the discovery. Oswald begged
him to be composed, lest Margery should perceive his agitation,
and misconstrue the cause. She soon returned with the necklace and
ear-rings; They were pearls of great value; and the necklace had a
locket, on which the cypher of Lovel was engraved.
“This,” said Oswald, “is indeed a proof of consequence. Keep it, sir,
for it belongs to you.”
“Must he take it away?” said she.
“Certainly,” returned Oswald; “we can do nothing without it; but if
Andrew should ask for it, you must put him off for the present, and
hereafter he will find his account in it.”
Margery consented reluctantly to part with the jewels; and, after some
further conversation, they took leave of her.
Edmund embraced her affectionately. “I thank you with my whole heart,”
said he, “for all your goodness to me! Though I confess, I never felt
much regard for your husband, yet for you I had always the tender
affection of a son. You will, I trust, give your evidence in my behalf
when called upon; and I hope it will one day be in my power to reward
your kindness; In that case, I will own you as my foster-mother, and you
shall always be treated as such.”
Margery wept. “The Lord grant it!” said she; “and I pray him to have you
in his holy keeping. Farewell, my dear child!”
Oswald desired them to separate for fear of intrusion; and they returned
to the castle. Margery stood at the door of her cottage, looking every
way to see if the coast was clear.
“Now, Sir,” said Oswald, “I congratulate you as the son of Lord and Lady
Lovel; the proofs are strong and indisputable.”
“To us they are so,” said Edmund; “but how shall we make them so to
others? and what are we to think of the funeral of Lady Lovel?”
“As of a fiction,” said Oswald; “the work of the present lord, to secure
his title and fortune.”
“And what means can we use to dispossess him?” said Edmund; “He is not a
man for a poor youth like me to contend with.”
“Doubt not,” said Oswald, “but Heaven, who has evidently conducted you
by the hand thus far, will complete its own work; for my part, I can
only wonder and adore!”
“Give me your advice then,” said Edmund; “for Heaven assists us by
natural means.”
“It seems to me,” said Oswald, “that your first step must be to make a
friend of some great man, of consequence enough to espouse your cause,
and to get this affair examined into by authority.”
Edmund started, and crossed himself; he suddenly exclaimed, “A friend!
Yes; I have a friend! a powerful one too; one sent by Heaven to be my
protector, but whom I have too long neglected.”
“Who can that be?” said Oswald.
“Who should it be,” said Edmund, “but that good Sir Philip Harclay, the
chosen friend of him, whom I shall from henceforward call my father.”
“‘Tis true indeed,” said Oswald; “and this is a fresh proof of what
I before observed, that Heaven assists you, and will complete its own
work.”
“I think so myself,” said Edmund, “and rely upon its direction. I have
already determined on my future conduct, which I will communicate to
you. My first step shall be to leave the castle; my lord has this day
given me a horse, upon which I purpose to set out this very night,
without the knowledge of any of the family. I will go to Sir Philip
Harclay; I will throw myself at his feet, relate my strange story, and
implore his protection; With him I will consult on the most proper way
of bringing this murderer to public justice; and I will be guided by his
advice and direction in everything.”
“Nothing can be better,” said Oswald, “than what you propose; but give
me leave to offer an addition to your scheme. You shall set off in the
dead of night, as you intend; Joseph and I, will favour your departure
in such a manner as to throw a mystery over the circumstances of it.
Your disappearing at such a time from the haunted apartment will terrify
and confound all the family; they will puzzle themselves in vain to
account for it, and they will be afraid to pry into the secrets of that
place.”
“You say well, and I approve your addition,” replied Edmund. “Suppose,
likewise, there was a letter written in a mysterious manner, and dropt
in my lord’s way, or sent to him afterwards; it would forward our
design, and frighten them away from that apartment.” “That shall be
my care,” said Oswald; “and I will warrant you that they will not find
themselves disposed to inhabit it presently.”
“But how shall I leave my dear friend Mr. William, without a word of
notice of this separation?”
“I have thought of that too,” said Oswald; “and I will so manage, as
to acquaint him with it in such a manner as he shall think out of the
common course of things, and which shall make him wonder and be silent.”
“How will you do that,” said Edmund?
“I will tell you hereafter,” said Oswald; “for here comes old Joseph to
meet us.”
He came, indeed, as fast as his age would permit him. As soon as he
was within hearing, he asked them what news? They related all that had
passed at Twyford’s cottage; he heard them with the greatest eagerness
of attention, and as soon as they came to the great event, “I knew it! I
knew it!” exclaimed Joseph; “I was sure it would prove so! Thank God
for it! But I will be the first to acknowledge my young lord, and I will
live and die his faithful servant!” Here Joseph attempted to kneel to
him, but Edmund prevented him with a warm embrace.
“My friend! my dear friend!” said he, “I cannot suffer a man of your age
to kneel to me; are you not one of my best and truest friends? I
will ever remember your disinterested affection for me; and if heaven
restores me to my rights, it shall be one of my first cares to render
your old age easy and happy.” Joseph wept over him, and it was some time
before he could utter a word.
Oswald gave them both time to recover their emotion, by acquainting
Joseph with Edmund’s scheme for his departure. Joseph wiped his eyes and
spoke. “I have thought,” said he, “of something that will be both agree
and useful to my dear master. John Wyatt, Sir Philip Harclay’s servant,
is now upon a visit at his father’s; I have heard that he goes home
soon; now he would be both a guide and companion, on the way.”
“That is, indeed, a happy circumstance,” said Edmund; “but how shall we
know certainly the time of his departure?”
“Why, Sir, I will go to him, and enquire; and bring you word directly.”
“Do so,” said Edmund, “and you will oblige me greatly.”
“But, Sir,” said Oswald, “I think it will be best not to let John
Wyatt know who is to be his companion; only let Joseph tell him that a
gentleman is going to visit his master, and, if possible, prevail upon
him to set out this night.”
“Do so, my good friend,” said Edmund; “and tell him, further, that this
person has business of great consequence to communicate to his master,
and cannot delay his journey on any account.”
“I will do this, you may depend,” said Joseph, “and acquaint you with my
success as soon as possible; but, sir, you must not go without a guide,
at any rate.”
“I trust I shall not,” said Edmund, “though I go alone; he that has
received such a call as I have, can want no other, nor fear any danger.”
They conversed on these points till they drew near the castle, when
Joseph left them to go on his errand, and Edmund attended his Lord
at dinner. The Baron observed that he was silent and reserved; the
conversation languished on both sides. As soon as dinner was ended,
Edmund asked permission to go up into his own apartment; where he packed
up some necessaries, and made a hasty preparation for his departure.
Afterwards he walked into the garden, revolving in his mind the
peculiarity of his situation, and the uncertainty of his future
prospects; lost in thought, he walked to and fro in a covered walk, with
his arms crossed and his eyes cast down, without perceiving that he was
observed by two females who stood at a distance watching his motions. It
was the Lady Emma, and her attendant, who were thus engaged. At length,
he lifted up his eyes and saw them; he stood still, and was irresolute
whether to advance or retire. They approached him; and, as they drew
near, fair Emma spoke.
“You have been so wrapt in meditation, Edmund, that I am apprehensive of
some new vexation that I am yet a stranger to. Would it were in my power
to lessen those you have already! But tell me if I guess truly?”
He stood still irresolute, he answered with hesitation. “O, lady--I
am--I am grieved, I am concerned, to be the cause of so much confusion
in this noble family, to which I am so much indebted; I see no way to
lessen these evils but to remove the cause of them.”
“Meaning yourself?” said she.
“Certainly, Madam; and I was meditating on my departure.”
“But,” said she, “by your departure you will not remove the cause.”
“How so, madam?”
“Because you are not the cause, but those you will leave behind you.”
“Lady Emma!”
“How can you affect this ignorance, Edmund? You know well enough it is
that odious Wenlock, your enemy and my aversion, that has caused all
this mischief among us, and will much more, if he is not removed.”
“This, madam, is a subject that it becomes me to be silent upon. Mr.
Wenlock is your kinsman; he is not my friend; and for that reason I
ought not to speak against him, nor you to hear it from me. If he has
used me ill, I am recompensed by the generous treatment of my lord your
father, who is all that is great and good; he has allowed me to justify
myself to him, and he has restored me to his good opinion, which I prize
among the best gifts of heaven. Your amiable brother William thinks well
of me, and his esteem is infinitely dear to me; and you, excellent Lady,
permit me to hope that you honour me with your good opinion. Are not
these ample amends for the ill-will Mr. Wenlock bears me?”
“My opinion of you, Edmund,” said she, “is fixed and settled. It is
not founded upon events of yesterday, but upon long knowledge and
experience; upon your whole conduct and character.”
“You honour me, lady! Continue to think well of me, it will excite me
to deserve it. When I am far distant from this place, the remembrance of
your goodness will be a cordial to my heart.”
“But why will you leave us, Edmund? Stay and defeat the designs of your
enemy; you shall have my wishes and assistance.”
“Pardon me, Madam, that is among the things I cannot do, even if it were
in my power, which it is not. Mr. Wenlock loves you, lady, and if he is
so unhappy as to be your aversion, that is a punishment severe enough.
For the rest, I may be unfortunate by the wickedness of others, but if I
am unworthy, it must be by my own fault.”
“So then you think it is an unworthy action to oppose Mr. Wenlock! Very
well, sir. Then I suppose you wish him success; you wish that I may be
married to him?”
“I, Madam!” said Edmund, confused; “what am I that I should give my
opinion on an affair of so much consequence? You distress me by the
question. May you be happy! may you enjoy your own wishes!”
He sighed, he turned away. She called him back; he trembled, and kept
silence.
She seemed to enjoy his confusion; she was cruel enough to repeat the
question.
“Tell me, Edmund, and truly, do you wish to see me give my hand to
Wenlock? I insist upon your answer.”
All on a sudden he recovered both his voice and courage; he stepped
forward, his person erect, his countenance assured, his voice resolute
and intrepid.
“Since Lady Emma insists upon my answer, since she avows a dislike to
Wenlock, since she condescends to ask my opinion, I will tell her my
thoughts, my wishes.”
The fair Emma now trembled in her turn; she blushed, looked down, and
was ashamed to have spoken so freely.
Edmund went on. “My most ardent wishes are, that the fair Emma may
reserve her heart and hand till a certain person, a friend of mine, is
at liberty to solicit them; whose utmost ambition is, first to deserve,
and then to obtain them.”
“Your friend, Sir!” said Lady Emma! her brow clouded, her eye
disdainful.
Edmund proceeded. “My friend is so particularly circumstanced that he
cannot at present with propriety ask for Lady Emma’s favour; but as soon
as he has gained a cause that is yet in suspence, he will openly declare
his pretensions, and if he is unsuccessful, he will then condemn himself
to eternal silence.”
Lady Emma knew not what to think of this declaration; she hoped, she
feared, she meditated; but her attention was too strongly excited to
be satisfied without some gratification; After a pause, she pursued the
subject.
“And this friend of yours, sir, of what degree and fortune is he?”
Edmund smiled; but, commanding his emotion, he replied, “His birth is
noble, his degree and fortune uncertain.”
Her countenance fell, she sighed; he proceeded. “It is utterly
impossible,” said he, “for any man of inferior degree to aspire to Lady
Emma’s favour; her noble birth, the dignity of her beauty and virtues,
must awe and keep at their proper distance, all men of inferior degree
and merit; they may admire, they may revere; but they must not presume
to approach too near, lest their presumption should meet with its
punishment.”
“Well, sir,” said she, suddenly; “and so this friend of yours has
commissioned you to speak in his behalf?”
“He has, Madam.”
“Then I must tell you, that I think his assurance is very great, and
yours not much less.”
“I am sorry for that, Madam.”
“Tell him, that I shall reserve my heart and hand for the man to whom my
father shall bid me give them.”
“Very well, Lady; I am certain my lord loves you too well to dispose of
them against your inclination.”
“How do you know that, sir? But tell him, that the man that hopes for my
favour must apply to my lord for his.”
“That is my friend’s intention--his resolution, I should say--as soon as
he can do it with propriety; and I accept your permission for him to do
so.”
“My permission did you say? I am astonished at your assurance! tell me
no more of your friend; But perhaps you are pleading for Wenlock all
this time; It is all one to me; only, say no more.”
“Are you offended with me, madam?”
“No matter, sir.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I am surprised at you, Edmund.”
“I am surprised at my own temerity; but, forgive me.”
“It does not signify; good bye ty’e, sir.”
“Don’t leave me in anger, madam; I cannot bear that. Perhaps I may not
see you again for a long time.”
He looked afflicted; she turned back. “I do forgive you, Edmund; I
was concerned for you; but, it seems, you are more concerned for every
body than for yourself.” She sighed; “Farewell!” said she.
Edmund gazed on her with tenderness; he approached her, he just touched
her hand; his heart was rising to his lips, but he recollected his
situation; he checked himself immediately; he retired back, he sighed
deeply, bowed low, and hastily quitted her.
The lady turning into another walk, he reached the house first, and went
up again to his chamber; he threw himself upon his knees; prayed for a
thousand blessings upon every one of the family of his benefactor, and
involuntarily wept at mentioning the name of the charming Emma, whom he
was about to leave abruptly, and perhaps for ever. He then endeavoured
to compose himself, and once more attended the Baron; wished him a good
night; and withdrew to his chamber, till he was called upon to go again
to the haunted apartment.
He came down equipped for his journey, and went hastily for fear of
observation; he paid his customary devotions, and soon after Oswald
tapped at the door. They conferred together upon the interesting subject
that engrossed their attention, until Joseph came to them, who brought
the rest of Edmund’s baggage, and some refreshment for him before he
set out. Edmund promised to give them the earliest information of his
situation and success. At the hour of twelve they heard the same
groans as the night before in the lower apartment; but, being somewhat
familiarized to it, they were not so strongly affected. Oswald crossed
himself, and prayed for the departed soul; he also prayed for Edmund,
and recommended him to the Divine protection. He then arose, and
embraced that young man; who, also, took a tender leave of his friend
Joseph. They then went, with silence and caution, through a long
gallery; they descended the stairs in the same manner; they crossed the
hall in profound silence, and hardly dared to breathe, lest they should
be overheard; they found some difficulty in opening one of the folding
doors, which at last they accomplished; they were again in jeopardy at
the outward gate. At length they conveyed him safely into the stables;
there they again embraced him, and prayed for his prosperity.
He then mounted his horse, and set forward to Wyatt’s cottage; he
hallooed at the door, and was answered from within. In a few minutes
John came out to him.
“What, is it you, Master Edmund?”
“Hush!” said he; “not a word of who I am; I go upon private business,
and would not wish to be known.”
“If you will go forward, sir, I will soon overtake you.” He did so; and
they pursued their journey to the north. In the mean time, Oswald
and Joseph returned in silence into the house; they retired to their
respective apartments without hearing or being heard by any one.
About the dawn of day Oswald intended to lay his packets in the way of
those to whom they were addressed; after much contrivance he determined
to take a bold step, and, if he were discovered, to frame some excuse.
Encouraged by his late success, he went on tip-toe into Master William’s
chamber, placed a letter upon his pillow, and withdrew unheard. Exulting
in his heart, he attempted the Baron’s apartment, but found it fastened
within. Finding this scheme frustrated, he waited till the hour the
Baron was expected down to breakfast, and laid the letter and the key of
the haunted apartment upon the table. Soon after, he saw the Baron
enter the breakfast room; he got out of sight, but staid within call,
preparing himself for a summons. The Baron sat down to breakfast; he saw
a letter directed to himself--he opened it, and to his great surprise,
read as follows:--
“The guardian of the haunted apartment to Baron Fitz-Owen. To thee I
remit the key of my charge, until the right owner shall come, who will
both discover and avenge my wrongs; then, woe be to the guilty!--But
let the innocent rest in peace. In the mean time, let none presume
to explore the secrets of my apartment, lest they suffer for their
temerity.”
The Baron was struck with amazement at the letter. He took up the key,
examined it, then laid it down, and took up the letter; he was in such
confusion of thought, he knew not what to do or say for several minutes.
At length he called his servants about him; the first question he asked
was--
“Where is Edmund?”
“They could not tell.
“Has he been called?”
“Yes, my Lord, but nobody answered, and the key was not in the door.”
“Where is Joseph?”
“Gone into the stables.”
“Where is father Oswald?”
“In his study.”
“Seek him, and desire him to come hither.”
By the time the Baron had read the letter over again, he came.
He had been framing a steady countenance to answer to all
interrogatories. As he came in he attentively observed the Baron, whose
features were in strong agitation; as soon as he saw Oswald, he spoke as
one out of breath.
“Take that key, and read this letter!”
He did so, shrugged up his shoulders, and remained silent.
“Father,” said my lord, “what think you of this letter?”
“It is a very surprising one.”
“The contents are alarming. Where is Edmund?”
“I do not know.”
“Has nobody seen him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Call my sons, my kinsmen, my servants.”
The servants came in.
“Have any of you seen or heard of Edmund?”
“No,” was the answer.
“Father, step upstairs to my sons and kinsmen, and desire them to come
down immediately.”
Oswald withdrew; and went, first, to Mr. William’s chamber.
“My dear sir, you must come to my lord now directly--he has something
extraordinary to communicate to you.”
“And so have I, father--see what I have found upon my pillow!”
“Pray, sir, read it to me before you shew it to any body; my lord
is alarmed too much already, and wants nothing to increase his
consternation.”
William read his letter, while Oswald looked as if he was an utter
stranger to the contents, which were these:--
“Whatever may be heard or seen, let the seal of friendship be upon thy
lips. The peasant Edmund is no more; but there still lives a man who
hopes to acknowledge, and repay, the Lord Fitz-Owen’s generous care
and protection; to return his beloved William’s vowed affection, and to
claim his friendship on terms of equality.”
“What,” said William, “can this mean?”
“It is not easy to say,” replied Oswald.
“Can you tell what is the cause of this alarm?”
“I can tell you nothing, but that my lord desires to see you
directly--pray make haste down; I must go up to your brothers and
kinsmen, nobody knows what to think, or believe.”
Master William went down stairs, and Father Oswald went to the
malcontents. As soon as he entered the outward door of their apartment,
Mr. Wenlock called out. “Here comes the friend--now for some new
proposal!”
“Gentlemen,” said Oswald, “my lord desires your company immediately in
the breakfast parlour.”
“What! to meet your favourite Edmund, I suppose?” said Mr. Wenlock.
“No, sir.”
“What, then, is the matter?” said Sir Robert.
“Something very extraordinary has happened, gentlemen. Edmund is not to
be found--he disappeared from the haunted apartment, the key of which
was conveyed to my lord in a strange manner, with a letter from an
unknown hand; my lord is both surprised and concerned, and wishes to
have your opinion and advice on the occasion.”
“Tell him,” said Sir Robert, “we will wait upon him immediately.”
As Oswald went away, he heard Wenlock say, “So Edmund is gone, it is no
matter how, or whither.”
Another said, “I hope the ghost has taken him out of the way.” The rest
laughed at the conceit, as they followed Oswald down stairs. They found
the Baron, and his son William, commenting upon the key and the letter.
My lord gave them to Sir Robert, who looked on them with marks of
surprise and confusion.