CHAP. XI
The design of Sir Philip, in giving a ball, was this evening made known, and the next day messages were sent out to invite the company for that day week. Preparations were instantly begun, and new dresses ordered. Madeline and Agnes de Clifford obtained leave to be of the party, and several of the inhabitants of Bungay were highly pleased by receiving invitations. Roseline, on whose account, as much as the Baron's, it was given, was the least gratified. Any scene of cheerfulness to her was become a scene of misery. Her spirits depressed her mind, itself a chaos of contending passions, could not admit a single ray of hope or comfort to chase away the gloom which there prevailed. She no longer felt either pleasure or consolation in her stolen interviews with her beloved Walter, which once afforded her such indescribable satisfaction.
They now saw each other with a tender despondence, which served to deprive them of that resolution which could alone support them in those trials which no longer appeared at a distance, and Roseline, sinking under the burthen of her own sorrows, felt herself totally unable to share in those which equally overpowered her unfortunate lover, from whose prison she never went, but he concluded it was the last time he should be indulged with seeing her.
Walter heard of the ball, which was to be given in compliment to his rival, with that kind of contempt and trembling indignation which a brave officer feels at seeing some upstart stripling stepping over his head to preferment, and, by dint of mere adventitious events, obtaining authority to lead those whom he dared not have followed. It has always been said that the sincerest love could not exist without hope. In this instance, however, the assertion did not hold good; for, though hope was lost, love maintained its empire, and, environed with despair, lost none of that tender energy which had united two hearts under circumstances the most alarming and distressing.
The conduct of Sir Philip de Morney surprised all those who were let into the secret of the projected alliance. The Baron's pride appeared to have infected him with a mania of the same kind; and the unpleasant change it produced was not more inimical to the happiness of others than he soon found it proved to his own. He was now seldom greeted with the smile of affection: he saw looks of distress, and heard the sigh of discontent vibrate on his ear; and, whilst he condemned the obstinacy of others, determined resolutely to persevere in his own.
How much is it to be lamented, that, with all the knowledge he acquires, man knows so little of himself! How astonishing that a sudden and unexpected change in his prospects, or situation, should instantaneously work so unaccountable a revolution in his feelings, that he scarcely retains any recollection of his former dispositions! – and, still more strange it appears, that, while adversity serves to exalt the mind and purify the heart, prosperity should harden and debase them.
About forty of those who had been invited to the ball returned answers that they would do themselves the honour of accepting the invitation. Roseline became so much changed in her looks, appearance, and manner, that at length the alteration struck the Baron, and he mentioned it to Sir Philip. This produced a second warm altercation between him and Roseline, which ended as the former had done, namely, in the want of resolution, strength, and spirits, on her part, to contend longer on a subject so painful to her feelings, and so inimical to all her hopes of happiness; for Sir Philip now insisted, and that with a degree of unfeeling ferocity, that she should give her hand to the Baron within ten days after the month was expired which he had so foolishly allowed her perverse folly and caprice.
Of this interview Roseline said nothing to her brother or the prisoner, but felt that her fortitude deserted her as time stole away, and, with the deprivation of health and spirits, threatened to leave her an uncontending and helpless victim to the authority she began to doubt having power to resist. Still she determined, if dragged by force to the altar, she would resolutely and openly, before its sacred front, declare not only her unwillingness to become the wife of the Baron, but her repugnance and aversion to the monastic life.
At length the anxiously-expected, the long wished for evening arrived, and produced an assemblage of as much elegance, grace, wit, and beauty, as had ever been collected together in so confined a circle. – From the social town of Bungay some very lovely young women made their first appearance at the castle, decorated to the utmost advantage, and justly entitled to dispute the palm of beauty with many found in the higher ranks.
On this occasion, it is not to be doubted but they cherished hopes that their charms would conquer some of the young officers appointed to guard the fortress, on which the safety of themselves and the town depended.
From the earliest ages of the world, the old adage prevailed, – "None but the brave deserve the fair," while the military dress, shining sword, and becoming cockade, were ever found useful auxiliaries in assisting their wearer to find easy access to the female heart.
When dancing was ordered to begin, the Baron, arrayed most superbly, took out Roseline, and led her to the upper end of the room. De Willows followed, leading Edeliza, who was drest in the most becoming and captivating stile, and looked so enchantingly beautiful, that he wondered he had ever beheld her with indifference, or preferred another. Her expressive eyes told a tale so correspondent to the feelings of his own heart, as completed its conquest, and the captivity was found so pleasing and easy, it never afterwards wished to regain its freedom. Edwin danced with the gentle Madeline; Hugh Camelford with Bertha, and the rest of the party disposed of themselves as their vanity or inclination prompted.
The dancing was begun with avidity and spirit, which some very excellent music served to heighten and keep up. The Baron not ungracefully exhibited his well-dressed person, and this great personage had the satisfaction of seeing that the eyes of the company were chiefly fixed upon him who had procured them this unexpected indulgence, – a circumstance unusual in an age when expensive pleasures were confined to the higher ranks of life, and by that means less coveted by those in inferior stations, which certainly tended to the good of society in general, as it served to render all parties contented with their lot. We now often see, with pity and regret, if young people are thrown by chance into a walk of life some degrees higher than their habitual one, they seldom know how to return to their former humble path without discontent and regret, which will too often lead them to sacrifice virtue, and every real good, for the frivolous nonsense of the dress and the parade of ceremony, while, to obtain the enjoyment of pleasures destructive to time and real happiness, they will give up their peace of mind, not repent the poor bargain they have made so long as they can live in stile.
Some few pitied, but a far greater number envied Roseline for having made so important a conquest, and were surprised to see how little she was animated amidst the exhilirating scene of gaiety and splendor, wholly occupying the attention of one of the first barons in the kingdom, whose smile by most people would be reckoned an honour, and whose frown among many was destruction from which there was often no appeal.
Every rarity that could be procured was set before the party. Hospitality and festivity went hand in hand, and, to a careless and uninterested spectator, it would have seemed that universal happiness prevailed; but it was far otherwise. Happiness is seldom found amidst a crowd. In the more retired scenes of serene unambitious enjoyment, we have a much better change of finding that rara avis, and of retaining it in our possession, if possible to be found.
Sir Philip de Morney was tormented with fears that the obstinacy of his daughter would disappoint his ambition, while the tenderness of her mother had so far subdued the influence of her pride, that, to see her daughter restored to her former health and spirits, she would gladly have yielded up the honour of an alliance with the Baron.
The artless unaspiring Roseline, before she was brought into notice by the proud attentions of her noble admirer, was a far happier being than she found herself at the moment she was looked up to as an object of envy; but the simple dress she had been accustomed to wear was more conformable to her own unadulterated taste than the splendid habiliments with which she was now loaded, and which the pride, or design, of her father had procured to throw a veil over her senses, and tempt her to purchase those still more brilliant at the expence of her peace; yet, notwithstanding all the fascinating allurements with which she saw herself surrounded, the court, adulation, and respect, paid to her, the eagerness of the company to obtain a share in her notice, her heart remained with Walter, the unknown stranger, who belonged to no one, – who was without fortune, and deprived of that freedom which is the birthright of the poorest peasant; nevertheless Walter, in a gloomy and solitary prison, was an object more captivating and far more valuable in her eyes than the lordly Baron in a stately castle.
When they had danced about half an hour after supper, the Baron apologized to Roseline for withdrawing to make some alteration in his dress, which he found unpleasant. She felt herself gratified by this temporary absence, and took the opportunity of chatting with some of her young companions. Deeply engaged in conversation with Madeline and Agnes de Clifford, she did not observe that her father was suddenly called out of the room, and requested by the servant in a whisper to hasten with the utmost speed to the apartment of his friend.
Too much surprised to inquire the cause, he instantly obeyed the summons. On his entrance, I will leave my readers to guess how much he must have been alarmed and shocked at seeing that friend extended on the floor, with every appearance of death on his countenance. After trying various methods to recover him without effect, he ordered one of his people to call De Clavering to his assistance, who, by some powerful and proper applications, soon produced signs of life, but it was near an hour before any of sense returned. He neither seemed to know where he was, not why he saw so many people about him. At length, however, he recovered his recollection, – said he had been very ill but found himself better, and requested to be left a few minutes in private with Sir Philip de Morney, whom be beckoned to sit down by the side of the bed on which he was laid.
The room being cleared, and the door fastened, to prevent interruption, the Baron grasped the hand of his friend, and in a hurried tone, at the same time looking around him in terror, informed him that he had seen a spirit. "It stood there!" pointing with his finger to a particular part of the room. Sir Philip appeared incredulous, and his looks were not misunderstood.
"Believe me, (continued the Baron,) it was no delusion of the senses. I actually saw the ghost of my first wife as surely as I now see you, and as perfectly as ever I saw her when alive. She glided out of the apartment the moment I entered it to change my dress, which I found too heavy for dancing. She looked displeased, frowned sternly upon me, and shook her head as she disappeared. Her countenance was as blooming, and retained the same beauty and expression as when I led her in triumph to the altar twenty years ago."
"Surely, my lord, (said Sir Philip,) this supposed visionary appearance must be the effects of the disorder which attacked you so violently, that it led De Clavering, as well as myself, to tremble for your life."
"Say rather, (replied the Baron,) and then you will say right, the disorder was occasioned by the terror, which, in that moment, indeed deprived me of my senses. – If I see you at this time, I then beheld the face, form, and features, of my once-loved Isabella, of whom I was deprived by death in the infancy of my happiness, six months after she had given birth to a son, of whom the same inexorable tyrant robbed me in the fourth year of my second marriage."
Sir Philip found it was useless to contend with his friend on a subject in which he so obstinately persevered; and, though he was satisfied that the fright was merely the effect of disease, he though it wisest to confine his disbelief to his own bosom, and drop the conversation as soon as possible. He insisted on remaining with him the rest of the night, and cherished hopes that by the morning this unaccountable vagary would be forgotten, or only remembered as a sudden delirium, occasioned perhaps by heat, and the unusual exercise in which he had been engaged. His offer of sitting up was cordially accepted, and the two gentlemen agreed it would be right and prudent to say as little about the ghost as possible, Sir Philip secretly trembling left the Baron's unfortunate whim should operate so powerfully upon his feelings as to prevent his fulfilling at engagements with Roseline.
This strange circumstance occasioned so much confusion and hurry in the castle, that the party separated much earlier than they wished, and every one accounted, as their own humour dictated, for the sudden indisposition of the Baron. One or two, mortified by their pleasure being so unseasonably curtailed, said the old man had better have gone to bed at eight o'clock, or not have attempted dancing in a ball-room when he was dancing on the verge of the grave.
Sir Philip, with two servants, sat with the Baron during the night, and in the morning De Clavering found him so much recovered, that he advised him to get into the air, as that, with moderate exercise, he ventured to pronounce would perfect his recovery, and he would have nothing to fear from a relapse, if he kept himself composed; but that same composure the Baron did not find quite so easy to acquire as De Clavering imagined.
The awful appearance he had seen was not one moment from his remembrance: it still flitted before his mental sight, and his tortured mind presented only Isabella to his view. She had frowned upon him, shaken her head, and vanished with a look of anger and contempt: with this regretted and beloved wife he had passed by far the happiest moments of his life. She was the first, and indeed the only, woman he had really loved, notwithstanding the world had unjustly branded him with being an unkind and morose husband. It had in the respect dealt by him with the same injustice it had done by a thousand others. The delicate frame of Isabella was wasting in a rapid decline, from the moment she became a mother. He had adored her, and watched her as his richest treasure during the few months she had lingered with him, after presenting him with a son; she expired in his arms, and the severest pang she felt was being torn from them for ever. Why she should rise from the grave, why she should frown upon him, who had loved her so sincerely, he could neither comprehend nor reconcile to his feelings.
With his second wife he had lived several years; but all the happiness he had found in the course of them was not to be compared with that which he had enjoyed with his gentle Isabella, in the short time he had been indulged with the pleasure of calling her his own.
By the second lady, he had several children, and it was the death of an only surviving son, at the age of sixteen, on whom she had doted with an almost unpardonable fondness, which had occasioned her own.
Having been thus been deprived of two wives, and bereaved of his childres, without having any near relations for whom he felt those prevailing and powerful affections which could lead him to proctise self-denial on their account, he justly considered himself at liberty to endeavour to find happiness in the way to which his ideas of it were annexed, and therefore made choice of the daughter of his friend, Sir Philip, to share his fortune, and inherit such a part of it, as he should find her worthy to possess, if she did not bring him those who would have a more rightful claim to it.
He had no sooner recovered the shock and terror which he had so awfully and unaccountable experienced, than he determined to persevere, and accelerate all the necessary preparations for the completion of his marriage.
He was now eager to quit Bungay-Castle, and to return with the most convenient speed to his own, as he could not entirely divest himself of apprehension, that he might receive another unpleasant visit from his Isabella, whom, much as he had sincerely loved and admired when living, he did not now wish should leave her grave to interrupt those pleasures which he anticipated from the nature of his present engagements.
Sir Philip, who from the first had suspected the Baron's alarm and subsequent terror to have originated from a more natural (however unaccountable) cause than that to which he so obstinately imputed it, made all the inquiries he dared risk, without giving his reasons for so doing; but, notwithstanding his most artful endeavours, the mystery remained unexplained, and he was obliged to leave it to time, or chance, to develope.
END OF VOL. I
BUNGAY CASTLE: A NOVEL.
VOL. II
CHAP. I
Though every means had been made use of to render the ball given at the castle pleasant and agreeable to all the party, they did not succeed so well as we could wish. There were several of the company, as it is to this day found but too customary on all such important and interesting occasions, distressed, mortified, and discontented, who returned to their habitations with more cares than they had carried out, more pangs than they well knew how to bear, or than the pleasure, if unalloyed, could have repaid. One or two young ladies had actually fainted at seeing others better dressed and more noticed than themselves. Another was wretched, and out of humour at observing the Adonis, for whom she had long cherished the most romantic affection, pay his whole attention to the beautiful Edeliza, who was rendered wild by the gaiety, novelty, and splendour of the scene, while her little head was nearly turned by the fine things said to her, and the admiration she excited.
Edwin secretly repined that, as soon as the evening closed, Madeline would be again for an age, in the calculation of a lover's calendar, secluded from his sight, and compelled to count her beads in the cheerless and solitary cell of a nunnery, from which he knew not whether it would be in the power of art or stratagem to deliver her, and how dreadful would be the consequences both to himself and the woman he loved far better than himself, should the project, which he had long cherished in his enterprizing and enamoured heart, be discovered! These distressing thoughts threw a cloud of despondency over every surrounding scene, and in some degree deprived him of that vivacity which had endeared him to his friends, and rendered his society both pleasant and entertaining, while the cause of this unaccountable revolution was suspected but by few.
De Willows had never before felt himself so forcibly struck with the charms of the fond and artless Edeliza, which blazed upon him with unusual lustre, from the stile and manner in which she had adorned and heightened her modest beauties by the artillery of a dress admirably chosen to captivate; and so well did she succeed, aided by the little blind god, under whose banners she had ventured to en**t, that a change took place in the heart of her favourite, against whom alone her designs were levelled, as sudden as it was to himself surprising.
Madeline was almost forgotten, and as little regarded as his grandmother would have been. Every thought, every wish now rested with Edeliza, – the little girl whom he had so long considered and treated as a mere playful child. He even felt himself angry with every gentleman who paid her any attention, or appeared as well pleased with her as himself, and his bosom actually throbbed with jealous indignation while he observed her animated look and sparkling eye at the various compliments addressed to her; but when she bestowed her smiles on another it was agony. – Those enchanting smiles, those engaging looks, till this ill-fated evening, had been wholly engrossed by himself, not, till he knew the value of what he might lose, did he think he had anything to fear; – the delusion was ended, and he felt himself engaged in a new passion at the moment he was disengaged from an old one, which, having never been cherished by hope, was the more easily subdued.
He observed (for love, though said to be blind, is at times amazingly clear sighted) that De Clavering, the insensible, the fastidious De Clavering, appeared like himself, particularly attentive to Edeliza, condescended to say some civil things, hovered as near to her as possible, and followed her with an approving eye, as she gracefully exhibited her light and elegant figure in the dance, which, in his opinion, by no means proved him so indifferent to her charms as he had pretended to be in some of their unreserved and confidential conversations. – He had declared to De Huntingfield, as she glided past them, that she had a mine of harmony in her head, a troop of Cupids lying in ambush round her eyes and mouth, and an army of virtues encamped for life within her bosom. – De Willows heard him, and was convinced De Clavering had designs against his peace, and was as much in love as himself. The same charms which had so much influence on him might have made a captive of his friend.
Thus, seriously in love, thus tortured by the sudden impulse of jealousy, De Willows sullenly cursed the folly of giving balls, execrated the misery of being obliged to mix with a crowd, and the unpardonable levity of permitting young women of delicacy and fashion to exhibit their beautiful persons and fine attitudes in the dance, to amuse a parcel of unmeaning and designing fools, and wound those who loved them, – while such robust amusements were only fit for Indian girls or Hottentots. He almost determined never to go to another ball, and to persuade Edeliza to form the same resolution.
Thus, with doubts, fears, and jealousies, was marked the beginning of a passion in the mind of De Willows, which ended but with life, and which every succeeding day, month, and year, served to strengthen and confirm.
The tragical tale of two lovers, who had been present at the ball, and who seemed the happiest of the party, appeared to make a deep impressions on all who heard it, and had so much influence on De Willows, that he determined no part of his conduct should ever give a moment's pain to the susceptible heart of Edeliza, if he should prove so fortunate as to be entrusted with the precious deposit, and obtain the consent of Sir Philip and Lady de Morney to bless him with the hand of their lovely daughter. The tale we have alluded to, though melancholy, being a real fact, we hope it will not be unacceptable to our readers.
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Blandeville were the respectacle parents of a numerous family, whom they educated from the produce of a well established and profitable business. They had several daughters; the eldest, who was both lively and handsome, was unfortunately admired by a young gentleman of the name of Narford. The attachment had been cherished by both parties from the time they went to school, and so marked were the attentions which, even at that early age, they had shewn to each other, that it had often excited the jokes and ridicule of their young companions, who were in the habit of frequently addressing the timid and blushing Lucy by the name of Mrs. Narford.
Her lover had the irreparable misfortune to lose both his parents before any plan had been formed for his future establishment. – He was likewise, unhappily for his interest, left to the care of inexperienced and careless guardians, who permitted him, as his fortune was genteel, to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His disposition being lively in the extreme, led him into innumerable eccentricities, and his juvenile indiscretions wasted a part of that fortune which should have been kept for his maturer age.
When his clerkship was just expired, (for he was articled to an attorney,) he made application to the parents of Lucy for leave to address their daughter. Mr. Blandeville was no stranger to some part of the vices and follies of which he had been guilty, but, as he likewise knew that enough of his fortune still remained to secure his daughter as comfortable an establishment as she had any right to expect, he promised, if his future conduct was irreproachable, that, when he was fixed in life, and able to provide for a family, he would give him the hand of his daughter, and from that period he had permission to visit Lucy as a lover, and was received at Mr. Blandeville's house as one of the family.
Lovers, it is too well known, will say and promise any thing. This observation was unhappily verified in the giddy and erring Narford, who, though he sincerely loved the daughter of Mr. Blandeville, and could not be ignorant that on his part he was equally beloved, very soon broke his word, and ran into some glaring excesses, which could not be long concealed from those whom it most materially concerned. The gentle Lucy often ventured to reproach her lover, but his repentance and promises of amendment very soon procured his forgiveness. – Not so easily was the father to be softened. After repeatedly hearing of his intemperance and consequent riots, he forbade him his house, and prohibited his daughter from holding any further intercourse with one so unworthy of her regard, who had given such frequent proofs of his libertine disposition, had already wasted part of his property, and was in a way to squander the whole.
Unfortunately the prudent prohibition of the father was disregarded by the daughter, whose attachment to the unthinking Narford neither his vices nor follies had been able to conquer. She lamented his failings, but she could not subdue that attachment which had from so early a period of her life been implanted in her heart. From him only she had heard the tale of love, and he alone had obtained any interest in her affections. Love had bound her in his silken fetters, and she had not power to shake them off.
Many stolen interviews did the proscribed Narford obtain with his believing and inexperienced mistress by means of that all-prevailing traitor, gold, whose influence few of the needy children of dependence can long withstand; nor could all the reproaches of a duteous and uncorrupted heart prevent Lucy from listening to the beguiling flatterer.
At the time they met at the Castle they had not been able to see each other for some weeks, and the pleasure was as great as it was unexpected. Their present situation was past sorrows were forgotten in their mutual joy, and the young lady easily prevailed upon to accept the hand of her lover for the evening, as she still hoped it was the hand destined to guide her through life. – Too happy in enjoying the society for which she languished to recollect the causes which had prevented their more frequent intercourse, – her spirits exhilirated by the gay and cheerful party, and the enlivening sounds of music, she listened to his vows with believing tenderness, and in a fond conceding moment unreluctantly agreed to his proposal of a private marriage: – the day was fixed, and the hour for escape appointed.
The plan once determined, they indulged themselves in all that innocent fondness the prospect of being speedily united seemed to claim and authorise, but their happiness was as unstable and visionary as their plan. Some one that was present, either actuated by friendship to the parents, or envious at seeing the exulting transports which sparkled in the eyes of the lovers, and excited a suspicion of their design, obtained sufficient intelligence from some broken sentences (conveyed in rather loud whispers from the lips of Narford, who was too much intoxicated with his unexpected success to be guarded by prudence) as to betray their intention.
The next day a letter was sent to Mr. Blandeville, to inform him of the plan, that he might take such steps as would prevent the threatening mischief. In consequence of this unpleasing intelligence, the young lady was so strictly confined and closely watched, that it was impossible she could either receive or send any letters without being discovered, and Mr. Blandeville was too much enraged at finding the disobedient trick his daughter would have played him, to relax on moment in his rigour or care to prevent her eloping.
Narford, in the mean time, not able either to see Lucy, or convey any letter or message to her, became madly desperate, and ran into innumerable excesses, which, in the opinion of the prudent and thinking part of the world, justified the conduct of the lady's father, who commanded her not to see him, nor attempt to leave her own apartment till she could prevail upon herself to give him a solemn promise never again to hold intercourse, by word or letter, with that base, designing, and vile scoundrel, Narford.
The mother and sisters were equally offended with the unfortunate lover, whose conduct, previous to the time he had been forbidden the house of Mr. Blandeville, had in too may respects been highly blameable; but, as is frequently the case, what in his behaviour was worthy of praise had been concealed, while every deviation from prudence and rectitude was basely and maliciously exaggerated, Narford not having the happy art of concealing his frailties, or making himself friends, by that bewitching softness of manners which, in our more polished days, will recommend the most libertine characters, and procure them a favourable and cordial reception in polite and even virtuous circles.