Chapter IV: Part 4

“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 Markham 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.”

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 found 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.

“Not my natural son, but my relation; my son by adoption, my heir!”

“And will he live with you, sir?”

“Yes, John; and I hope to die with him.”

“Oh, then, I will serve him with all my heart and soul; and I will do my best to please you both.”

“I thank you, John, and I will not forget your honest love and duty. I have so good an opinion of you, that I will tell you of some things concerning this gentleman that will entitle him to your respect.”

“‘Tis enough for me,” said John, “to know that your honour respects him, to make me pay him as much duty as yourself.”

“But, John, when you know him better, you will respect him still more; at present, I shall only tell you what he is not; for you think him only the son of Andrew Twyford.”

“And is he not?” said John.

“No, but his wife nursed him, and he passed for her son.”

“And does old Twyford know it, sir?”

“He does, and will bear witness to it; but he is the son of a near friend of mine, of quality superior to my own, and as such you must serve and respect him.”

“I shall, to be sure, sir; but what name shall I call him?”

“You shall know that hereafter; in the mean time bring a light, and wait on us to the other parlour.”

When John was withdrawn, Sir Philip said, “That is a point to be considered and determined immediately; It is proper that you should assume a name till you can take that of your father; for I choose you should drop that of your foster-father; and I would have you be called by one that is respectable.”

“In that, and every other point, I will be wholly governed by you, sir,” said Edmund.

“Well then, I will give you the name of Seagrave; I shall say that you are a relation of my own; and my mother was really of that family.”

John soon returned, and attended them into the other parlour; Sir Philip entered, with Edmund in his hand.

“My friends,” said he, “this gentleman is Mr. Edward Seagrave, the son of a dear friend and relation of mine. He was lost in his infancy, brought up by a good woman out of pure humanity, and is but lately restored to his own family. The circumstances shall be made known hereafter; In the meantime, I have taken him under my care and protection, and will use all my power and interest to see him restored to his fortune, which is enjoyed by the usurper who was the cause of his expulsion, and the death of his parents. Receive him as my relation, and friend; Zadisky, do you embrace him first. Edmund, you and this gentleman must love each other for my sake; hereafter you will do it for your own.[”] They all rose; each embraced and congratulated the young man.

Zadisky said, “Sir, whatever griefs and misfortunes you may have endured, you may reckon them at an end, from the hour you are beloved and protected by Sir Philip Harclay.”

“I firmly believe it, sir,” replied Edmund; “and my heart enjoys, already, more happiness than I ever yet felt, and promises me all that I can wish in future; his friendship is the earnest Heaven gives me of its blessings hereafter.”

They sat down to supper with mutual cheerfulness; and Edmund enjoyed the repast with more satisfaction than he had felt a long time. Sir Philip saw his countenance brighten up, and looked on him with heart-felt pleasure.

“Every time I look on you,” said he, “reminds me of your father; you are the same person I loved twenty-three years ago--I rejoice to see you under my roof. Go to your repose early, and to-morrow we will consult farther.”

Edmund withdrew, and enjoyed a night of sweet undisturbed repose.

The next morning Edmund arose in perfect health and spirits: he waited on his benefactor. They were soon after joined by Zadisky, who shewed great attention and respect to the youth, and offered him his best services without reserve. Edmund accepted them with equal respect and modesty; and finding himself at ease, began to display his amiable qualities. They breakfasted together; afterwards, Sir Philip desired Edmund to walk out with him.

As soon as they were out of hearing, Sir Philip said, “I could not sleep last night for thinking of your affairs; I laid schemes for you, and rejected them again. We must lay our plan before we begin to act. What shall be done with this treacherous kinsman! this inhuman monster! this assassin of his nearest relation? I will risk my life and fortune to bring him to justice. Shall I go to court, and demand justice of the king? or shall I accuse him of the murder, and make him stand a public trial? If I treat him as a baron of the realm, he must be tried by his peers; if as a commoner, he must be tried at the county assize; but we must shew reason why he should be degraded from his title. Have you any thing to propose?”

“Nothing, sir; I have only to wish that it might be as private as possible, for the sake of my noble benefactor, the Lord Fitz-Owen, upon whom some part of the family disgrace would naturally fall; and that would be an ill return for all his kindness and generosity to me.”

“That is a generous and grateful consideration on your part; but you owe still more to the memory of your injured parents. However, there is yet another way that suits me better than any hitherto proposed; I will challenge the traitor to meet me in the field; and, if he has spirit enough to answer my call, I will there bring him to justice; if not, I will bring him to a public trial.”

“No, sir,” said Edmund, “that is my province. Should I stand by and see my noble, gallant friend expose his life for me, I should be unworthy to bear the name of that friend whom you so much lament. It will become his son to vindicate his name, and revenge his death. I will be the challenger, and no other.”

“And do you think he will answer the challenge of an unknown youth, with nothing but his pretensions to his name and title? Certainly not. Leave this matter to me; I will think of a way that will oblige him to meet me at the house of a third person who is known to all the parties concerned, and where we will have authentic witnesses of all that passes between him and me. I will devise the time, place, and manner, and satisfy all your scruples.”

Edmund offered to reply; but Sir Philip bad him be silent, and let him proceed in his own way.

He then led him over his estate, and shewed him every thing deserving his notice; he told him all the particulars of his domestic economy, and they returned home in time to meet their friends at dinner.

They spent several days in consulting how to bring Sir Walter to account, and in improving their friendship and confidence in each other. Edmund endeared himself so much to his friend and patron, that he declared him his adopted son and heir before all his friends and servants, and ordered them to respect him as such. He every day improved their love and regard for him, and became the darling of the whole family.

After much consideration, Sir Philip fixed his resolutions, and began to execute his purposes. He set out for the seat of the Lord Clifford, attended by Edmund, M. Zadisky, and two servants. Lord Clifford received them with kindness and hospitality.

Sir Philip presented Edmund to Lord Clifford and his family, as his near relation and presumptive heir; They spent the evening in the pleasures of convivial mirth and hospitable entertainment. The next day Sir Philip began to open his mind to Lord Clifford, informing him that both his young friend and himself had received great injuries from the present Lord Lovel, for which they were resolved to call him to account; but that, for many reasons, they were desirous to have proper witnesses of all that should pass between them, and begging the favour of his Lordship to be the principal one. Lord Clifford acknowledged the confidence placed in him; and besought Sir Philip to let him be the arbitrator between them. Sir Philip assured him, that their wrongs would not admit of arbitration, as he should hereafter judge; but that he was unwilling to explain them further till he knew certainly whether or not the Lord Lovel would meet him; for, if he refused, he must take another method with him.

Lord Clifford was desirous to know the grounds of the quarrel; but Sir Philip declined entering into particulars at present, assuring him of a full information hereafter. He then sent M. Zadisky, attended by John Wyatt, and a servant of Lord Clifford, with a letter to Lord Lovel; the contents were as follow:--

“My Lord Lovel,--Sir Philip Harclay earnestly desires to see you at the house of Lord Clifford, where he waits to call you to account for the injuries done by you to the late Arthur Lord Lovel, your kinsman; If you accept his demand, he will make the Lord Clifford a witness and a judge of the cause; if not, he will expose you publicly as a traitor and a coward. Please to answer this letter, and he will acquaint you with the time, place, and manner of the meeting.

“PHILIP HARCLAY.”

Zadisky presented the letter to Lord Lovel, informing him that he was the friend of Sir Philip Harclay. He seemed surprised and confounded at the contents; but, putting on an haughty air, “I know nothing,” said he, “of the business this letter hints at; but wait a few hours, and I will give you an answer.” He gave orders to treat Zadisky as a gentleman in every respect, except in avoiding his company; for the Greek had a shrewd and penetrating aspect, and he observed every turn of his countenance. The next day he came and apologized for his absence, and gave him the answer; sending his respects to the Lord Clifford. The messengers returned with all speed, and Sir Philip read the answer before all present.

“Lord Lovel knows not of any injuries done by him to the late Arthur Lord Lovel, whom he succeeded by just right of inheritance; nor of any right Sir Philip Harclay has, to call to account a man to whom he is barely known, having seen him only once, many years ago, at the house of his uncle, the old Lord Lovel: Nevertheless, Lord Lovel will not suffer any man to call his name and honour into question with impunity; for which reason he will meet Sir Philip Harclay at any time, place, and in what manner he shall appoint, bringing the same number of friends and dependents, that justice may be done to all parties.

“LOVEL.”

“‘Tis well,” said Sir Philip; “I am glad to find he has the spirit to meet me; he is an enemy worthy of my sword.”

Lord Clifford then proposed that both parties should pass the borders, and obtain leave of the warden of the Scottish marches to decide the quarrel in his jurisdiction, with a select number of friends on both sides. Sir Philip agreed to the proposal; and Lord Clifford wrote in his own name to ask permission of the Lord Graham, that his friends might come there; and obtained it, on condition that neither party should exceed a limited number of friends and followers.

Lord Clifford sent chosen messengers to Lord Lovel, acquainting him with the conditions, and appointing the time, place, and manner of their meeting, and that he had been desired to accept the office of judge of the field. Lord Lovel accepted the conditions, and promised to be there without fail. Lord Clifford notified the same to Lord Graham, warden of the marches, who caused a piece of ground to be inclosed for the lists, and made preparations against the day appointed.

In the interim, Sir Philip Harclay thought proper to settle his worldly affairs. He made Zadisky acquainted with every circumstance of Edmund’s history, and the obligation that lay upon him to revenge the death of his friend, and see justice done to his heir. Zadisky entered into the cause with an ardour that spoke the affection he bore to his friend.

“Why,” said he, “would you not suffer me to engage this traitor? Your life is of too much consequence to be staked against his; but though I trust that the justice of your cause must succeed, yet, if it should happen otherwise, I vow to revenge you; he shall never go back from us both. However, my hope and trust is, to see your arm the minister of justice.”

Sir Philip then sent for a lawyer and made his will, by which he appointed Edmund his chief heir, by the name of Lovel, alias Seagrave, alias Twyford; he ordered that all his old friends, soldiers, and servants, should be maintained in the same manner during their lives; he left to Zadisky an annuity of an hundred a year, and a legacy of two hundred pounds; one hundred pounds to a certain monastery; the same sum to be distributed among disbanded soldiers, and the same to the poor and needy in his neighbourhood.

He appointed Lord Clifford joint executor with Edmund, and gave his will into that nobleman’s care, recommending Edmund to his favour and protection.

“If I live,” said he, “I will make him appear to be worthy of it; if I die, he will want a friend. I am desirous your lordship, as a judge of the field, should be unprejudiced on either side, that you may judge impartially. If I die, Edmund’s pretensions die with me; but my friend Zadisky will acquaint you with the foundation of them. I take these precautions, because I ought to be prepared for every thing; but my heart is warm with better hopes, and I trust I shall live to justify my own cause, as well as that of my friend, who is a person of more consequence than he appears to be.”

Lord Clifford accepted the trust, and expressed the greatest reliance upon Sir Philip’s honour and veracity.

While these preparations were making for the great event that was to decide the pretensions of Edmund, his enemies at the Castle of Lovel were brought to shame for their behaviour to him.

The disagreement between Wenlock and Markham had by degrees brought on an explanation of some parts of their conduct. Father Oswald had often hinted to the Baron, Wenlock’s envy of Edmund’s superior qualities, and the artifices by which he had obtained such an influence with Sir Robert, as to make him take his part upon all occasions. Oswald now took advantage of the breach between these two incendiaries, to persuade Markham to justify himself at Wenlock’s expence, and to tell all he knew of his wickedness; at length, he promised to declare all he knew of Wenlock’s conduct, as well in France as since their return, when he should be called upon; and, by him, Oswald was enabled to unravel the whole of his contrivances, against the honour, interest, and even life of Edmund.

He prevailed on Hewson, and Kemp, his associate, to add their testimony to the others. Hewson confessed that he was touched in his conscience, when he reflected on the cruelty and injustice of his behaviour to Edmund, whose behaviour towards him, after he had laid a snare for his life, was so noble and generous, that he was cut to the heart by it, and had suffered so much pain and remorse, that he longed for nothing so much as an opportunity to unburden his mind; but the dread of Mr. Wenlock’s anger, and the effects of his resentment, had hitherto kept him silent, always hoping there would come a time, when he might have leave to declare the whole truth.

Oswald conveyed this information to the Baron’s ear, who waited for an opportunity to make the proper use of it. Not long after, the two principal incendiaries came to an open rupture, and Markham threatened Wenlock that he would shew his uncle what a serpent he had harboured in his bosom. The Baron arrested his words, and insisted upon his telling all he knew; adding,--

“If you speak the truth, I will support you; but if you prove false, I will punish you severely. As to Mr. Wenlock, he shall have a fair trial; and, if all the accusations I have heard are made good, it is high time that I should put him out of my family.”

The Baron, with a stern aspect, bade them follow him into the great hall; and sent for all the rest of the family together.

He then, with great solemnity, told them he was ready to hear all sides of the question. He declared the whole substance of his informations, and called upon the accusers to support the charge. Hewson and Kemp gave the same account they had done to Oswald, offering to swear to the truth of their testimony; several of the other servants related such circumstances as had come to their knowledge. Markham then spoke of every thing, and gave a particular account of all that had passed on the night they spent in the east apartment; he accused himself of being privy to Wenlock’s villany, called himself fool and blockhead for being the instrument of his malignant disposition, and asked pardon of his uncle for concealing it so long.

The Baron called upon Wenlock to reply to the charge; who, instead of answering, flew into a passion, raged, swore, threatened, and finally denied every thing. The witnesses persisted in their assertions. Markham desired leave to make known the reason why they were all afraid of him.

“He gives it out,” said he, “that he is to be my lord’s son-in-law; and they, supposing him to stand first in his favour, are afraid of his displeasure.”

“I hope,” said the Baron, “I shall not be at such a loss for a son-in-law, as to make choice of such a one as him; he never but once hinted at such a thing, and then I gave him no encouragement. I have long seen there was something very wrong in him; but I did not believe he was of so wicked a disposition; It is no wonder that princes should be so frequently deceived, when I, a private man, could be so much imposed upon within the circle of my own family. What think you, son Robert?”

“I, sir, have been much more imposed on; and I take shame to myself on the occasion.”

“Enough, my son,” said the Baron; “a generous confession is only a proof of growing wisdom. You are now sensible, that the best of us are liable to imposition. The artifices of this unworthy kinsman have set us at variance with each other, and driven away an excellent youth from this house, to go I know not whither; but he shall no longer triumph in his wickedness; he shall feel what it is to be banished from the house of his protector. He shall set out for his mother’s this very day; I will write to her in such a manner as shall inform her that he has offended me, without particularising the nature of his faults; I will give him an opportunity of recovering his credit with his own family, and this shall be my security against his doing further mischief. May he repent, and be forgiven.

“Markham deserves punishment, but not in the same degree.”

“I confess it,” said he, “and will submit to whatever your lordship shall enjoin.”

“You shall only be banished for a time, but he for ever. I will send you abroad on a business that shall put you in a way to do credit to yourself, and service to me. Son Robert, have you any objection to my sentence?”

“My Lord,” said he, “I have great reason to distrust myself; I am sensible of my own weakness, and your superior wisdom, as well as goodness; and I will henceforward submit to you in all things.”

The Baron ordered two of his servants to pack up Wenlock’s clothes and necessaries, and to set out with him that very day; he bade some others keep an eye upon him lest he should escape; As soon as they were ready, my Lord wished him a good journey, and gave him a letter for his mother. He departed without saying a word, in a sullen kind of resentment, but his countenance shewed the inward agitations of his mind.

As soon as he was gone, every mouth was opened against him; a thousand stories came out that they never heard before; The Baron and his sons were astonished that he should go on so long without detection. My lord sighed deeply at the thoughts of Edmund’s expulsion, and ardently wished to know what was become of him.

Sir Robert took the opportunity of coming to an explanation with his brother William; he took shame to himself for some part of his past behaviour. Mr. William owned his affection to Edmund, and justified it by his merit and attachment to him, which were such that he was certain no time or distance could alter them. He accepted his brother’s acknowledgement, as a full amends for all that had passed, and begged that henceforward an entire love and confidence might ever subsist between them. These new regulations restored peace, confidence, and harmony, in the Castle of Lovel.

At length, the day arrived for the combatants to meet. The Lord Graham, with twelve followers gentlemen, and twelve servants, was ready at the dawn of day to receive them.

The first that entered the field, was Sir Philip Harclay, knight, armed completely, excepting his head-piece; Hugh Rugby, his esquire, bearing his lance; John Barnard, his page, carrying his helmet and spurs; and two servants in his proper livery. The next came Edmund, the heir of Lovel, followed by his servant John Wyatt; Zadisky, followed by his servant.

At a short distance came the Lord Clifford, as judge of the field, with his esquire, two pages, and two livery-servants; followed by his eldest son, his nephew, and a gentleman his friend, each attended by one servant; He also brought a surgeon of note to take care of the wounded.

The Lord Graham saluted them; and, by his order, they took their places without the lists, and the trumpet sounded for the challenger. It was answered by the defendant, who soon after appeared, attended by three gentlemen his friends, with each one servant, beside his own proper attendants.

A place was erected for the Lord Clifford, as judge of the field; he desired Lord Graham would share the office, who accepted it, on condition that the combatants should make no objection, and they agreed to it with the greatest courtesy and respect. They consulted together on many points of honour and ceremony between the two combatants.

They appointed a marshal of the field, and other inferior officers, usually employed on these occasions. The Lord Graham sent the marshal for the challenger, desiring him to declare the cause of his quarrel before his enemy. Sir Philip Harclay then advanced, and thus spoke:

“I, Philip Harclay, knight, challenge Walter, commonly called Lord Lovel, as a base, treacherous, and bloody man, who, by his wicked arts and devices, did kill, or cause to be killed, his kinsman, Arthur Lord Lovel, my dear and noble friend. I am called upon, in an extraordinary manner, to revenge his death; and I will prove the truth of what I have affirmed at the peril of my life.”

Lord Graham then bade the defendant answer to the charge. Lord Lovel stood forth before his followers, and thus replied:

“I, Walter, Baron of Lovel, do deny the charge against me, and affirm it to be a base, false, and malicious accusation of this Sir Philip Harclay, which I believe to be invented by himself, or else framed by some enemy, and told to him for wicked ends; but, be that as it may, I will maintain my own honour, and prove him to be a false traitor, at the hazard of my own life, and to the punishment of his presumption.”

Then said the Lord Graham, “will not this quarrel admit of arbitration?”

“No,” replied Sir Philip; “when I have justified this charge, I have more to bring against him. I trust in God and the justice of my cause, and defy that traitor to the death!”

Lord Clifford then spoke a few words to Lord Graham, who immediately called to the marshal, and bade him open the lists, and deliver their weapons to the combatants.

While the marshal was arranging the combatants and their followers, Edmund approached his friend and patron; he put one knee to the ground, he embraced his knees with the strongest emotions of grief and anxiety. He was dressed in complete armour, with his visor down; his device was a hawthorn, with a graft of the rose upon it, the motto--This is not my true parent; but Sir Philip bade him take these words--E fructu arbor cognoscitur.

Sir Philip embraced the youth with strong marks of affection. “Be composed, my child!” said he; “I have neither guilt, fear, nor doubt in me; I am so certain of success, that I bid you be prepared for the consequence.”

Zadisky embraced his friend, he comforted Edmund, he suggested every thing that could confirm his hopes of success.

The marshal waited to deliver the spear to Sir Philip; he now presented it with the usual form.

“Sir, receive your lance, and God defend the right!”

Sir Philip answered, “Amen!” in a voice that was heard by all present.

He next presented his weapon to Lord Lovel with the same sentence, who likewise answered “Amen!” with a good courage. Immediately the lists were cleared, and the combatants began to fight.

They contended a long time with equal skill and courage; at length Sir Philip unhorsed his antagonist. The judges ordered, that either he should alight, or suffer his enemy to remount; he chose the former, and a short combat on foot ensued. The sweat ran off their bodies with the violence of the exercise. Sir Philip watched every motion of his enemy, and strove to weary him out, intending to wound, but not to kill him, unless obliged for his own safety.

He thrust his sword through his left arm, and demanded, whether he would confess the fact? Lord Lovel enraged, answered, he would die sooner. Sir Philip then passed the sword through his body twice, and Lord Lovel fell, crying out that he was slain.

“I hope not,” said Sir Philip, “for I have a great deal of business for you to do before you die: confess your sins, and endeavour to atone for them, as the only ground to hope for pardon.”

Lord Lovel replied, “You are the victor, use your good fortune generously!”

Sir Philip took away his sword, and then waved it over his head, and beckoned for assistance. The judges sent to beg Sir Philip to spare the life of his enemy.

“I will,” said he, “upon condition that he will make an honest confession.”

Lord Lovel desired a surgeon and a confessor.

“You shall have both,” said Sir Philip; “but you must first answer me a question or two. Did you kill your kinsman or not?”

“It was not my hand that killed him,” answered the wounded man.

“It was done by your own order, however? You shall have no assistance till you answer this point.”

“It was,” said he, “and Heaven is just!”

“Bear witness all present,” said Sir Philip; “he confesses the fact!”

He then beckoned Edmund, who approached.

“Take off your helmet,” said he; “look on that youth, he is the son of your injured kinsman.”

“It is himself!” said the Lord Lovel, and fainted away.

Sir Philip then called for a surgeon and a priest, both of which Lord Graham had provided; the former began to bind up his wounds, and his assistants poured a cordial into his mouth. “Preserve his life, if it be possible,” said Sir Philip; “for much depends upon it.”

He then took Edmund by the hand, and presented him to all the company. “In this young man,” said he, “you see the true heir of the house of Lovel! Heaven has in its own way made him the instrument to discover the death of his parents. His father was assassinated by order of that wicked man, who now receives his punishment; his mother was, by his cruel treatment, compelled to leave her own house; she was delivered in the fields, and perished herself in seeking a shelter for her infant. I have sufficient proofs of every thing I say, which I am ready to communicate to every person who desires to know the particulars. Heaven, by my hand, has chastised him; he has confessed the fact I accuse him of, and it remains that he make restitution of the fortune and honours he hath usurped so long.”

Edmund kneeled, and with uplifted hands returned thanks to Heaven, that his noble friend and champion was crowned with victory. The lords and gentlemen gathered round them, they congratulated them both; while Lord Lovel’s friends and followers were employed in taking care of him. Lord Clifford took Sir Philip’s hand.

“You have acted with so much honour and prudence, that it is presumptuous to offer you advice; but what mean you to do with the wounded man?”