Joseph came; when he was told whither they were going, he looked hard at Oswald. Wenlock observed them.
“Lead the way, father,” said he, “and Joseph shall follow us.”
Oswald smiled.
“We will go where Heaven permits us,” said he; “alas! the wisdom of man can neither hasten, nor retard, its decrees.”
They followed the father up stairs, and went directly to the haunted apartment. The Baron unlocked the door; he bid Joseph open the shutters, and admit the daylight, which had been excluded for many years. They went over the rooms above stairs, and then descended the staircase, and through the lower rooms in the same manner. However, they overlooked the closet, in which the fatal secret was concealed; the door was covered with tapestry, the same as the room, and united so well that it seemed but one piece. Wenlock tauntingly desired Father Oswald to introduce them to the ghost. The father, in reply, asked them where they should find Edmund. “Do you think,” said he, “that he lies hid in my pocket, or in Joseph’s?”
“’Tis no matter,” answered he; “thoughts are free.”
“My opinion of you, Sir,” said Oswald, “is not founded upon thoughts—I judge of men by their actions,—a rule, I believe, it will not suit you to be tried by.”
“None of your insolent admonitions, father!” returned Wenlock; “this is neither the time nor the place for them.”
“That is truer than you are aware of, sir; I meant not to enter into the subject just now.”
“Be silent,” said my Lord.
“I shall enter into this subject with you hereafter—then look you be prepared for it. In the mean time, do you, Dick Wenlock, answer to my questions:—Do you think Edmund is concealed in this apartment?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think there is any mystery in it?”
“No, my lord.”
“Is it haunted, think you?”
“No, I think not.”
“Should you be afraid to try?”
“In what manner, my lord?”
“Why, you have shewn your wit upon the subject, and I mean to show your courage;—you, and Jack Markham your confident, shall sleep here three nights, as Edmund has done before.”
“Sir,” said Sir Robert, “for what purpose? I should be glad to understand why.”
“I have my reasons, sir, as well as your kinsmen there. No reply, Sirs! I insist upon being obeyed in this point. Joseph, let the beds be well aired, and every thing made agreeable to the gentlemen; If there is any contrivance to impose upon me, they, I am sure, will have pleasure in detecting it; and, if not, I shall obtain my end in making these rooms habitable. Oswald, come with me; and the rest may go where they list till dinner-time.”
The Baron went with Oswald into the parlour.
“Now tell me, father,” said he, “do you disapprove what I have done?”
“Quite the contrary, my lord,” said he; “I entirely approve it.”
“But you do not know all my reasons for it. Yesterday Edmund’s behaviour was different from what I have ever seen it—he is naturally frank and open in all his ways; but he was then silent, thoughtful, absent; he sighed deeply, and once I saw tears stand in his eyes. Now, I do suspect there is something uncommon in that apartment—that Edmund has discovered the secret; and, fearing to disclose it, he is fled away from the house. As to this letter, perhaps he may have written it to hint that there is more than he dares reveal; I tremble at the hints contained in it, though I shall appear to make light of it. But I and mine are innocent; and if Heaven discloses the guilt of others, I ought to adore and submit to its decrees.”
“That is prudently and piously resolved, my lord; let us do our duty, and leave events to Heaven.”
“But, father, I have a further view in obliging my kinsmen to sleep there:—if any thing should appear to them, it is better that it should only be known to my own family; if there is nothing in it, I shall put to the proof the courage and veracity of my two kinsmen, of whom I think very indifferently. I mean shortly to enquire into many things I have heard lately to their disadvantage; and, if I find them guilty, they shall not escape with impunity.”
“My lord,” said Oswald, “you judge like yourself; I wish you to make enquiry concerning them, and believe the result will be to their confusion, and your Lordship will be enabled to re-establish the peace of your family.”
During this conversation, Oswald was upon his guard, lest any thing should escape that might create suspicion. He withdrew as soon as he could with decency, and left the Baron meditating what all these things should mean; he feared there was some misfortune impending over his house, though he knew not from what cause.
He dined with his children and kinsmen, and strove to appear cheerful; but a gloom was perceivable through his deportment. Sir Robert was reserved and respectful; Mr. William was silent and attentive; the rest of the family dutifully assiduous to my Lord; only Wenlock and Markham were sullen and chagrined. The Baron detained the young men the whole afternoon; he strove to amuse and to be amused; he shewed the greatest affection and parental regard to his children, and endeavoured to conciliate their affections, and engage their gratitude by kindness. Wenlock and Markham felt their courage abate as the night approached; At the hour of nine, old Joseph came to conduct them to the haunted apartment; they took leave of their kinsmen, and went up stairs with heavy hearts.
They found the chamber set in order for them, and a table spread with provision and good liquor to keep up their spirits.
“It seems,” said Wenlock, “that your friend Edmund was obliged to you for his accommodations here.”
“Sir,” said Joseph, “his accommodations were bad enough the first night; but, afterwards, they were bettered by my lord’s orders.”
“Owing to your officious cares?” said Wenlock.
“I own it,” said Joseph, “and I am not ashamed of it.”
“Are you not anxious to know what is become of him?” said Markham.
“Not at all, sir; I trust he is in the best protection; so good a young man as he is, is safe everywhere.”
“You see, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “how this villain has stole the hearts of my uncle’s servants; I suppose this canting old fellow knows where he is, if the truth were known.”
“Have you any further commands for me, gentlemen?” said the old man.
“No, not we.”
“Then I am ordered to attend my lord, when you have done with me.”
“Go, then, about your business.”
Joseph went away, glad to be dismissed.
“What shall we do, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “to pass away the time?—it is plaguy dull sitting here.”
“Dull enough,” said Markham, “I think the best thing we can do, is to go to bed and sleep it away.”
“Faith!” says Wenlock, “I am in no disposition to sleep. Who would have thought the old man would have obliged us to spend the night here?”
“Don’t say us, I beg of you; it was all your own doing,” replied Markham.
“I did not intend he should have taken me at my word.”
“Then you should have spoken more cautiously. I have always been governed by you, like a fool as I am; you play the braggart, and I suffer for it; But they begin to see through your fine-spun arts and contrivances, and I believe you will meet with your deserts one day or other.”
“What now? do you mean to affront me, Jack? Know, that some are born to plan, others to execute; I am one of the former, thou of the latter. Know your friend, or—”
“Or what?” replied Markham; “do you mean to threaten me? If you do!”
“What then?” said Wenlock.
“Why, then, I will try which of us two is the best man, sir!”
Upon this Mark
ham arose, and put himself into a posture of defence. Wenlock perceiving he was serious in his anger, began to soothe him; he persuaded, he flattered, he promised great things if he would be composed. Markham was sullen, uneasy, resentful; whenever he spoke, it was to upbraid Wenlock with his treachery and falsehood. Wenlock tried all his eloquence to get him into a good humour, but in vain; he threatened to acquaint his uncle with all that he knew, and to exculpate himself at the other’s expence. Wenlock began to find his choler rise; they were both almost choaked with rage; and, at length, they both rose with a resolution to fight.
As they stood with their fists clenched, on a sudden they were alarmed with a dismal groan from the room underneath. They stood like statues petrified by fear, yet listening with trembling expectation. A second groan increased their consternation; and, soon after, a third completed it. They staggered to a seat, and sunk down upon it, ready to faint. Presently, all the doors flew open, a pale glimmering light appeared at the door, from the staircase, and a man in complete armour entered the room. He stood, with one hand extended, pointing to the outward door; they took the hint, and crawled away as fast as fear would let them; they staggered along the gallery, and from thence to the Baron’s apartment, where Wenlock sunk down in a swoon, and Markham had just strength enough to knock at the door.
The servant who slept in the outward room alarmed his lord.
Markham cried out, “For Heaven’s sake, let us in!”
Upon hearing his voice, the door was opened, and Markham approached his Uncle in such an attitude of fear, as excited a degree of it in the Baron. He pointed to Wenlock, who was with some difficulty recovered from the fit he was fallen into; the servant was terrified, he rung the alarm-bell; the servants came running from all parts to their Lord’s apartment; The young gentlemen came likewise, and presently all was confusion, and the terror was universal. Oswald, who guessed the business, was the only one that could question them. He asked several times,
“What is the matter?”
Markham, at last, answered him, “We have seen the ghost!”
All regard to secrecy was now at an end; the echo ran through the whole family—“They have seen the ghost!”
The Baron desired Oswald to talk to the young men, and endeavour to quiet the disturbance. He came forward; he comforted some, he rebuked others; he had the servants retire into the outward room. The Baron, with his sons and kinsmen, remained in the bed-chamber.
“It is very unfortunate,” said Oswald, “that this affair should be made so public; surely these young men might have related what they had seen, without alarming the whole family. I am very much concerned upon my lord’s account.”
“I thank you, father,” said the Baron; “but prudence was quite overthrown here. Wenlock was half dead, and Markham half distracted; the family were alarmed without my being able to prevent it. But let us hear what these poor terrified creatures say.”
Oswald demanded, “What have you seen, gentlemen?”
“The ghost!” said Markham.
“In what form did it appear?”
“A man in armour.”
“Did it speak to you?”
“No.”
“What did it do to terrify you so much?”
“It stood at the farthest door, and pointed to the outward door, as if to have us leave the room; we did not wait for a second notice, but came away as fast as we could.”
“Did it follow you?”
“No.”
“Then you need not have raised such a disturbance.”
Wenlock lifted up his head, and spoke—
“I believe, father, if you had been with us, you would not have stood upon ceremonies any more than we did. I wish my lord would send you to parley with the ghost; for, without doubt, you are better qualified than we.”
“My Lord,” said Oswald, “I will go thither, with your permission; I will see that every thing is safe, and bring the key back to you; Perhaps this may help to dispel the fears that have been raised—at least, I will try to do it.”
“I thank you, father, for your good offices—do as you please.”
Oswald went into the outward room. “I am going,” said he, “to shut up the apartment. The young gentlemen have been more frightened than they had occasion for; I will try to account for it. Which of you will go with me?”
They all drew back, except Joseph, who offered to bear him company. They went into the bedroom in the haunted apartment, and found every thing quiet there. They put out the fire, extinguished the lights, locked the door, and brought away the key. As they returned, “I thought how it would be,” said Joseph.
“Hush! not a word,” said Oswald; “you find we are suspected of something, though they know not what. Wait till you are called upon, and then we will both speak to purpose.” They carried the key to the Baron.
“All is quiet in the apartment,” said Oswald, “as we can testify.”
“Did you ask Joseph to go with you,” said the Baron, “or did he offer himself?”
“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.”
The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK™: 17 Classic Tales Page 43