“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.
The Gothic Terror MEGAPACK ™: 17 Classic Tales Page 41