The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK™: 17 Classic Tales (46 page)

“My Lord, I asked if any body would go with me, and they all declined it but he; I thought proper to have a witness beside myself, for whatever might be seen or heard.”

“Joseph, you were servant to the late Lord Lovel; what kind of man was he?”

“A very comely man, please your lordship.”

“Should you know him if you were to see him?”

“I cannot say, my lord.”

“Would you have any objection to sleep a night in that apartment?”

“I beg,”—“I hope,”—“I beseech your lordship not to command me to do it!”

“You are then afraid; why did you offer yourself to go thither?”

“Because I was not so much frightened as the rest.”

“I wish you would lie a night there; but I do not insist upon it.”

“My lord, I am a poor ignorant old man, not fit for such an undertaking; beside, if I should see the ghost, and if it should be the person of my master, and if it should tell me any thing, and bid me keep it secret, I should not dare to disclose it; and then, what service should I do your lordship?”

“That is true, indeed,” said the Baron.

“This speech,” said Sir Robert, “is both a simple and an artful one. You see, however, that Joseph is not a man for us to depend upon; he regards the Lord Lovel, though dead, more than Lord Fitz-Owen, living; he calls him his master, and promises to keep his secrets. What say you, father, Is the ghost your master, or your friend? Are you under any obligation to keep his secrets?”

“Sir,” said Oswald, “I answer as Joseph does; I would sooner die than discover a secret revealed in that manner.”

“I thought as much,” said Sir Robert; “there is a mystery in Father Oswald’s behaviour, that I cannot comprehend.”

“Do not reflect upon the father,” said the Baron; “I have no cause to complain of him; perhaps the mystery may be too soon explained; but let us not anticipate evils. Oswald and Joseph have spoken like good men; I am satisfied with their answers; let us, who are innocent, rest in peace; and let us endeavour to restore peace in the family; and do you, father, assist us.”

“With my best services,” said Oswald. He called the servants in. “Let nothing be mentioned out of doors,” said he, “of what has lately passed within, especially in the east apartment; the young gentlemen had not so much reason to be frightened as they apprehended; a piece of furniture fell down in the rooms underneath, which made the noise that alarmed them so much; but I can certify that all things in the rooms are in quiet, and there is nothing to fear. All of you attend me in the chapel in an hour; do your duties, put your trust in God, and obey your Lord, and you will find every thing go right as it used to do.”

They dispersed; the sun rose, the day came on, and every thing went on in the usual course; but the servants were not so easily satisfied; they whispered that something was wrong, and expected the time that should set all right. The mind of the Baron was employed in meditating upon these circumstances, that seemed to him the forerunners of some great events; he sometimes thought of Edmund; he sighed for his expulsion, and lamented the uncertainty of his fate; but, to his family, he appeared easy and satisfied.

From the time of Edmund’s departure, the fair Emma had many uneasy hours; she wished to enquire after him, but feared to shew any solicitude concerning him. The next day, when her brother William came into her apartment, she took courage to ask a question.

“Pray, brother, can you give any guess what is become of Edmund?”

“No,” said he, with a sigh; “why do you ask me?”

“Because, my dear William, I should think if any body knew, it must be you; and I thought he loved you too well to leave you in ignorance. But don’t you think he left the castle in a very strange manner?”

“I do, my dear; there is a mystery in every circumstance of his departure; Nevertheless (I will trust you with a secret), he did not leave the castle without making a distinction in my favour.”

“I thought so,” said she; “but you might tell me what you know about him.”

“Alas, my dear Emma! I know nothing. When I saw him last, he seemed a good deal affected, as if he were taking leave of me; and I had a foreboding that we parted for a longer time than usual.”

“Ah! so had I,” said she, “when he parted from me in the garden.”

“What leave did he take of you, Emma?”

She blushed, and hesitated to tell him all that passed between them; but he begged, persuaded, insisted; and, at length, under the strongest injunctions of secrecy, she told him all.

He said, “That Edmund’s behaviour on that occasion was as mysterious as the rest of his conduct; but, now you have revealed your secret, you have a right to know mine.”

He then gave her the letter he found upon his pillow; she read it with great emotion.

“Saint Winifred assist me!” said she; “what can I think? ‘The peasant Edmund is no more, but there lives one,’—that is to my thinking, Edmund lives, but is no peasant.”

“Go on, my dear,” said William; “I like your explanation.”

“Nay, brother, I only guess; but what think you?”

“I believe we think alike in more than one respect, that he meant to recommend no other person than himself to your favour; and, if he were indeed of noble birth, I would prefer him to a prince for a husband to my Emma!”

“Bless me!” said she, “do you think it possible that he should be of either birth or fortune?”

“It is hard to say what is impossible! we have proof that the east apartment is haunted. It was there that Edmund was made acquainted with many secrets, I doubt not: and, perhaps, his own fate may be involved in that of others. I am confident that what he saw and heard there, was the cause of his departure. We must wait with patience the unravelling this intricate affair; I believe I need not enjoin your secrecy as to what I have said; your heart will be my security.”

“What mean you, brother?”

“Don’t affect ignorance, my dear; you love Edmund, so do I; it is nothing to be ashamed of. It would have been strange, if a girl of your good sense had not distinguished a swan among a flock of geese.”

“Dear William, don’t let a word of this escape you; but you have taken a weight off my heart. You may depend that I will not dispose of my hand or heart till I know the end of this affair.”

William smiled: “Keep them for Edmund’s friend; I shall rejoice to see him in a situation to ask them.”

“Hush, my brother! not a word more; I hear footsteps.”

They were her eldest brother’s, who came to ask Mr. William to ride out with him, which finished the conference.

The fair Emma from this time assumed an air of satisfaction; and William frequently stole away from his companions to talk with his sister upon their favourite subject.

While these things passed at the castle of Lovel, Edmund and his companion John Wyatt proceeded on their journey to Sir Philip Harclay’s seat; they conversed together on the way, and Edmund sound him a man of understanding, though not improved by education; he also discovered that John loved his master, and respected him even to veneration; from him he learned many particulars concerning that worthy knight. Wyatt told him, “That Sir Philip maintained twelve old soldiers who had been maimed and disabled in the wars, and had no provision made for them; also six old officers, who had been unfortunate, and were grown grey without preferment; he likewise mentioned the Greek gentleman, his master’s captive and friend, as a man eminent for valour and piety; but, beside these,” said Wyatt, “there are many others who eat of my master’s bread and drink of his cup, and who join in blessings and prayers to Heaven for their noble benefactor; his ears are ever open to distress, his hand to relieve it, and he shares in every good man’s joys and blessings.”

“Oh, what a glorious character!” said Edmund; “how my heart throbs with wishes to imitate such a man! Oh, that I might resemble him, though at ever so great a distance!”

Edmund was never weary of hearing the actions of this truly great man, nor Wyatt with relating them; and, during three days journey, there were but few pauses in their conversation.

The fourth day, when they came within view of the house, Edmund’s heart began to raise doubts of his reception. “If,” said he, “Sir Philip should not receive me kindly, if he should resent my long neglect, and disown my acquaintance, it would be no more than justice.”

He sent Wyatt before, to notify his arrival to Sir Philip, while he waited at the gate, full of doubts and anxieties concerning his reception. Wyatt was met and congratulated on his return by most of his fellow-servants. He asked—

“Where is my master?”

“In the parlour.”

“Are any strangers with him?”

“No, only his own family.”

“Then I will shew myself to him.”

He presented himself before Sir Philip.

“So, John,” said he, “you are welcome home! I hope you left your parents and relations well?”

“All well, thank God! and send their humble duty to your honour, and they pray for you every day of their lives. I hope your honour is in good health.”

“Very well.”

“Thank God for that! but, sir, I have something further to tell you; I have had a companion all the way home, a person who comes to wait on your honour, on business of great consequence, as he says.”

“Who is that, John?”

“It is Master Edmund Twyford, from the castle of Lovel.”

“Young Edmund!” says Sir Philip, surprised; “where is he?”

“At the gate, sir.”

“Why did you leave him there?”

“Because he bade me come before, and acquaint your honour, that he waits your pleasure.”

“Bring him hither,” said Sir Philip; “tell him I shall be glad to see him.”

John made haste to deliver his message, and Edmund followed him in silence into Sir Philip’s presence.

He bowed low, and kept at a distance. Sir Philip held out his hand, and bad him approach. As he drew near, he was seized with an universal trembling; he kneeled down, took his hand, kissed it, and pressed it to his heart in silence.

“You are welcome, young man!” said Sir Philip; “take courage, and speak for yourself.”

Edmund sighed deeply; he at length broke silence with difficulty. “I am come thus far, noble sir, to throw myself at your feet, and implore your protection. You are, under God, my only reliance.”

“I receive you,” said Sir Philip, “with all my heart! Your person is greatly improved since I saw you last, and I hope your mind is equally so; I have heard a great character of you from some that knew you in France. I remember the promise I made you long ago, and am ready now to fulfil it, upon condition that you have done nothing to disgrace the good opinion I formerly entertained of you; and am ready to serve you in any thing consistent with my own honour.”

Edmund kissed the hand that was extended to raise him. “I accept your favour, sir, upon this condition only; and if ever you find me to impose upon your credulity, or incroach on your goodness, may you renounce me from that moment!”

“Enough,” said Sir Philip; “rise, then, and let me embrace you; You are truly welcome!”

“Oh, noble sir!” said Edmund, “I have a strange story to tell you; but it must be by ourselves, with only heaven to bear witness to what passes between us.”

“Very well,” said Sir Philip; “I am ready to hear you; but first, go and get some refreshment after your journey, and then come to me again. John Wyatt will attend you.”

“I want no refreshment,” said Edmund; “and I cannot eat or drink till I have told my business to your honour.”

“Well then,” said Sir Philip, “come along with me.” He took the youth by the hand, and led him into another parlour, leaving his friends in great surprise, what this young man’s errand could be; John Wyatt told them all that he knew relating to Edmund’s birth, character, and situation.

When Sir Philip had seated his young friend, he listened in silence to the surprising tale he had to tell him. Edmund told him briefly the most remarkable circumstances of his life, from the time when he first saw and liked him, till his return from France; but from that era, he related at large every thing that had happened, recounting every interesting particular, which was imprinted on his memory in strong and lasting characters. Sir Philip grew every moment more affected by the recital; sometimes he clasped his hands together, he lifted them up to heaven, he smote his breast, he sighed, he exclaimed aloud; when Edmund related his dream, he breathed short, and seemed to devour him with attention; when he described the fatal closet, he trembled, sighed, sobbed, and was almost suffocated with his agitation. But when he related all that passed between his supposed mother and himself, and finally produced the jewels, the proofs of his birth, and the death of his unfortunate mother, he flew to him, he pressed him to his bosom, he strove to speak, but speech was for some minutes denied. He wept aloud; and, at length, his words found their way in broken exclamations.

“Son of my dearest friend! Dear and precious relic of a noble house! child of Providence! the beloved of heaven! welcome! thrice welcome to my arms! to my heart! I will be thy parent from henceforward, and thou shalt be indeed my child, my heir! My mind told me from the first moment I beheld thee, that thou wert the image of my friend! my heart then opened itself to receive thee, as his offspring. I had a strange foreboding that I was to be thy protector. I would then have made thee my own; but heaven orders things for the best; it made thee the instrument of this discovery, and in its own time and manner conducted thee to my arms. Praise be to God for his wonderful doings towards the children of men! every thing that has befallen thee is by his direction, and he will not leave his work unfinished; I trust that I shall be his instrument to do justice on the guilty, and to restore the orphan of my friend to his rights and title. I devote myself to this service, and will make it the business of my life to effect it.”

Edmund gave vent to his emotions, in raptures of joy and gratitude. They spent several hours in this way, without thinking of the time that passed; the one enquiring, the other explaining, and repeating, every particular of the interesting story.

At length they were interrupted by the careful John Wyatt, who was anxious to know if any thing was likely to give trouble to his master.

“Sir,” said John, “it grows dark—do you want a light?”

“We want no light but what heaven gives us,” said Sir Philip; “I knew not whether it was dark or light.”

“I hope,” said John, “nothing has happened, I hope your honour has heard no bad tidings; I—I—I hope no offence.”

“None at all,” said the good knight; “I am obliged to your solicitude for me; I have heard some things that grieve me, and others that give me great pleasure; but the sorrows are past, and the joys remain.”

“Thank God!” said John; “I was afraid something was the matter to give your honour trouble.”

“I thank you, my good servant! You see this young gentleman; I would have you, John, devote yourself to his service; I give you to him for an attendant on his person, and would have you show your affection to me by your attachment to him.”

“Oh, Sir!” said John in a melancholy voice, “what have I done to be turned out of your service?”

“No such matter, John,” said Sir Philip; “you will not leave my service.”

“Sir,” said John, “I would rather die than leave you.”

“And, my lad, I like you too well to part with you; but in serving my friend you will serve me. Know, that this young man is my son.”

“Your son, sir!” said John.