The Old English Baron/Part 4
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!"