A tale so sad and interesting as that we have recited soon found its way to the inhabitants of the castle, particularly as De Clavering had been called in to the assistance of the dying Lucy.

The melancholy scene he witnessed, as we may imagine, made a lasting and forcible impression upon a heart so tender and susceptible as his, and he did not fail to make such comments upon it, as he hoped would have some weight on the minds of those to whom they were addressed; but he did not succeed in his design; for, whatever Sir Philip de Morney might think, he chose, and took care to keep to himself, and the Baron not even condescending to make any observations on a subject in which he did not appear to feel the least interested, and which he considered as being too romantic and childish to merit the attention of a person in his high station.

Lady de Morney and the young people wept for the fate of Narford and Lucy, while the latter wondered any parents could be so cruel as to separate such fond and faithful lovers.

Notwithstanding the utmost pains had been taken to conceal the cause of the Baron's sudden indisposition, it had in part transpired, owing, as we may presume, to the irresistible propensity, and restless curiosity, the Baron's servant felt to know all his master's secrets, and his great eagerness to impart them when known. Some words, which had dropped from the Baron to his friend Sir Philip, the evening of the alarm, just as Pedro was ordered out of the room, unfortunately caught his ear, which was instantaneously applied to the key-hole of the door to obtain farther intelligence; and, though he could not so exactly understand the story as to connect it with accuracy, he picked up enough of it to make him desirous of knowing the whole; and, having heard the word ghost uttered more than once with great emphasis, it gave him some suspicion that his master's illness originated from a fright, and the more than usual earnestness, with which he asserted the truth of what he had been saying, confirmed Pedro in this opinion.

Thus the half-formed tale was whispered under the most solemn promises of secresy from one to another, till every servant in the family had gleaned up something, without any one of them knowing what it meant.

A few nights after, as Pedro was attending his master, when he was going to bed, he determined to make one more effort to discover the whole story, and try whether he could not prevail on the Baron to entrust him with a secret he would have given some part of his wages to find out. He opened this important business as follows.

"I shall be heartily glad, my lord, when we get from this castle, and return to your own."

"Why so? (inquired his master:)—my friend, Sir Philip, is very hospitable, and his family infinitely charming."

"Yes, yes, I dare say, my lord, in your opinion the young ladies are charming creatures, and I fancy they are not a whit less pleased with your lordship."

"Do you think so, Pedro? (said the Baron, in one of his most harmonious tones, his pride and self-love being gratified by his servant's observation.)—Why, indeed, I had never much reason to complain of the ladies' coolness."

"It would certainly be surprising if you had, my lord. A man of your rank, fortune, and figure, is not very likely to meet with coldness; it is only such a poor ugly dog as I am that must expect to be frowned upon by the women."

"Oh! then, Pedro, (said the Baron smiling,) a disappointment in love makes you wish to quit this place."

"No, my lord. I complain of nothing in the day; that generally passes off very well; but, in the night, there are so many cursed ghosts clattering about, with such confounded nosies at their heels, both within and without doors, that a man can neither sleep nor move with comfort or security."

"Psha! (replied the Baron,) let me hear of no such idle and improbable tales.—I did not suppose you so great a fool or so dastardly a coward as to mind the nonsense of women and children."

"As to that, (said Pedro, nettled by the contemptuous manner of the Baron, and the epithet of coward,) I have as much courage as most men among men; but, when I am forced to mix with ghosts and evil spirits, I want a little spice of the courage with which your lordship is so bountifully endowed. I dare say, my lord, you never saw a ghost, and were never frightened either by the living or the dead."

"What should I be frightened at? (cried the Baron impatiently;) let me hear no more such impertinent nonsense."

"I hope (muttered Pedro) the next time they come, they will pay you another visit. It is an honour due to your dignity, and we servants can very well dispense with their company;" but this was said in so low a voice, as he shut the door, that it was impossible to be understood by the imperious master to whom it was addressed. "As much a coward as I am, (continued he, as he went along,) I was never frightened into a fit as some folks have been with all their boasted courage and great knowledge."

Notwithstanding the Baron was so much alarmed by the appearance of his Isabella, that he could scarcely shake it from his mind a moment, and remained in a state of anxiety and terror, yet it was impossible he should be any longer blind to the dejection of Roseline, or insensible of her cold indifference. If she met him with a smile, it was visibly the smile of anguish. She sometimes appeared to avoid him, and more than once had made an effort to leave him at the very instant he was addressing her in one of his fondest and most impassioned speeches.—Sir Philip was his friend; on him he had conferred many favours: it was both his interest and inclination to bring about an union between him and his daughter. It was possible he might have deceived him as to the real situation of her heart;—the thought was too alarming to his feelings and his pride to be easily got rid of. Roseline was often absent, and that for several hours together: it looked suspicious. He would no longer trust either the father or the daughter; but, with the assistance of his man Pedro, who was a shrewd fellow at finding out a secret, he would endeavour to discover whether he was not right in his conjecture of having a rival. Sir Philip had certainly promised more for his daughter than he supposed him authorised to do, or than the young lady herself was able or willing to ratify: he determined therefore to get rid of his doubts as soon as possible, and either obtain the prize he had in view, or withdraw himself for ever from the castle.

Audrey, who had in the mean while picked up a vague unconnected account of what had happened in respect to the ghost, was eager to tell the wonderful tale to Roseline, who, though incredulous as she had ever appeared to all the marvellous tales she had imparted to her, ought to be informed of this, she thought, as it was so connected with the history of her intended husband. She luckily met her young lady on the stairs, put her finger on her lips to imposed silence, and, with much solemnity in her look and manner, beckoned her to follow her into the gallery, when, stepping into the first room she came to, she thus eagerly began.

"Well, miss, it was as I said; the Baron is no better than he should be. I have waited successfully these three days to tell you so; but you are grown so preserved and so shy, a body can seldom catch a moment to speak to you."

"What is the matter, my good Audrey?"

"Matter enough on my conscience, if one believes all one hears! Only think, miss, of a ghost, that should have been minding its business at the Baron's own castle, having taken the trouble of following him to this upon some special business it had to municate. However, travelling three or four hundred miles is nothing to a ghost, that can, as I have heard, go at the rate of a thousand miles in a minute, either by land, sea, or water, it matters not to them; but we could have expenced with such visitors, God help us! for we have enow such that go with the castle, and, 'tis said, must do so till the day of judgment."

Roseline, who paid but little attention to Audrey's tales, smiled at this, and gave her a sly look of incredulity, which convinced her of her unbelief. This was a kind of claim upon her to confirm it more strongly.

"Well, you may think as you please, Miss Roseline, the Baron was actilly scared into a fit of arpaplexy at seeing his own wife, all in white, the very moral of herself when alive; and, what is more, she held a knife and a lighted a candle in her hand, and shewed him the wound in her bosom which casioned her death; and she sneered at him, shaked her ghostly head, grinned, and, as he was found upon the floor, 'tis supposed she knocked him down, and then went away in a sky-rocket, or a squib, or some such thing, as belong to those sort of hanimals; for the noise she made at going off was so great and amendous, it broke the drum of Pedro's ear, and left the Baron in a state of sensibility."

"I would advise you, Audrey, (said Roseline,) not to give credit to such improbable tales, and never again to repeat this which you have been telling me."

"'Tis genevin, miss, I assure you. I had it from Pedro's own mouth; so, if you are determined to marry a man haunted by the ghost of another wife, you must abide by the incision. She was certainly sent out of the world unfairly, or why should she not rest in her grave as quietly as other folks?"

Roseline, much as she disliked the Baron as a lover, had too much respect for her father's friend to permit her servant to speak of him so freely, and to lay so dreadful a crime to his charge, which she concluded, like the story of the ghost, was merely the invention of evil-minded people.—She therefore reproved Audrey with a seriousness that alarmed her, and assured her, if she ever again presumed to mention Baron Fitzosbourne in terms so disrespectful and degrading, she would instantly request her father to send her from the castle.

The prating Abigail, finding her young lady really displeased, chose to alter her tone.—To be sure she might have been wrong informed; the world was a wicked place, and some people were sadly entreated in it:—the Baron was a gentleman,—a powerful fine gentleman it was successively hard to be belied;—no one could expence with that:—he was a lord into the bargain, notwithstanding his methodicalness, had some good qualities, and, for certain, was as fine a pice of 'tiquity as any that hung up in the great hall, and looked as antic as the old walls covered with ivory.—Roseline made no answer to this curious eulogium, and Audrey very soon took herself away.

The Baron was not long in determining how to proceed. He became resolute to satisfy his doubts respecting his having a rival. It was neither improbable, nor unlikely, that some of the young officers, stationed in or about the castle, might have designs inimical to his. The lady herself might have favoured their pretences unknown to her father; and, if so, he should run some risk in making her his wife.—The thought was too painful and degrading to be supported, and the critical situation of affairs would not admit of longer deliberation.

The month was on the very eve of terminating, at the expiration of which Sir Philip had promised him the hand of his daughter; yet the young lady was not more conciliating, or less coy and distant in her behaviour to him, than she had been the first day of their meeting. Pedro was summoned, and for some time was closeted with his master. He was promised a liberal reward if he could get into the good graces of the female servants, and make himself master of the young lady's secrets; luckily for our heroine, she had not made a confidant of any one of them.

This Pedro undertook, as he had already began to make love to Audrey, who, in her moments of conceding tenderness, had told him all she knew, making some additions of her own; but the whole amounted to but little more than—her young lady was strangely altered: it might be, her love for the Baron had produced this change; but, for her part, she could not think it possible for any one to like such an old frampled figure.

The Baron next proposed that Pedro should accompany him, in taking a ramble about the castle, after the family had retired to rest, to reconnoitre the premises, and learn, if possible, from what quarter they were most exposed to danger. He determined to explore all the secret passages, for he could not help cherishing suspicions that lovers might be admitted, and intrigues carried on, unknown to the most watchful and careful parent; and to what but the prevailing influence of a favoured rival could he impute the uncommon and increasing coldness of Roseline?

It was not to be wondered at that the Baron was alarmed, for the conduct of his daughter had not escaped the eyes of Sir Philip, who, chiefly displeased with what he termed her obstinacy and caprice, in order to compel her to his purpose, had, notwithstanding he promised to drop the subject for a month, found it necessary to caution her to be more guarded and respectful in her behaviour, at the same time assuring her he would not survive the disappointment of his hopes, in seeing her united to his friend; adding another horrid threat, that, if she betrayed his design, in that moment she would terminate her father's existence.

This dreadful sentence at once determined the fate of the unhappy Roseline, and, having no alternative left, she instantly promised to give her hand to the Baron, and sacrifice her own happiness to preserve the life of her father, on which she knew that of her mother depended. Her brothers and sisters too! how could she support the thought of depriving them of a father's protection, and become herself a parricide!—Her own sufferings would be but short;—their's might be continued through a long and weary pilgrimage.

Her father, satisfied with her promise, retired, and left her to recover herself. Then it was she recollected her engagement, and thought of the prisoner. Her resolution faltered, and reason tottered on its throne.

The dreadful fate she was preparing for him,—the distress her loss and inconstancy would inflict on the interesting object, dearer to her than life, or ten thousand worlds, tortured her to distraction, and shook her whole frame: the blood of life receded from her heart for a few moments, and she fell to the earth.

Soon however she recovered to a more perfect sense of her miseries: she wrung her hands;—she would see her Walter;—she would continue to do so till she became the property of him whom she detested, and could never love, and who, she fervently prayed, might be deprived of claiming the rights of a husband, by her being snatched from his embraces by the friendly hand of death, a rival, which, if he did not fear, he could neither injure not subdue; and she should have the delightful, the soul-consoling satisfaction of descending to the grave a spotless victim to her love of Walter. Her spirit would perhaps be permitted to guard him from danger, and watch his footsteps, while he remained on earth, and in heaven she could meet and claim him as her own.

These thoughts, romantic as they appear in the eye of reason and experience, had a wonderful effect upon her mind, and restored it in some degree to its usual tone and composure. She became more resigned to her fate, and to the above-mentioned determinations added another, namely, that, before she became a wife, she would write to her unfortunate lover, and explain the motives that had induced her to break her engagement with him, sufficiently to exculpate her from blame, prevent his execrating and hating the name of Roseline, and if possible still to preserve his esteem. Edwin should be the messenger she would entrust with her letter. These weighty matters settled in the only manner that could make them conformable to the present state of her feelings, she resolved silently and without complaining to yield to a sentence from which, however unjust and arbitrary, she knew there could be appeal, no chance of a reprieve.

Her determination and unconditional consent were soon made known to the Baron by his delighted and exulting friend, who now ventured a few gentle reproaches for the little confidence that had been placed in his word, and the injustice which had been shewn to his zeal. The Baron received this intelligence with unaffected pleasure,—apologized for his lover-like doubts, which had originated from the superior merits of the beloved object, and the disparity of years, which some ladies might have considered as an objection to an union taking place.

Superb dresses were to be ordered for the bride, new carriages built, and the lawyers set to work with all possible expedition; for, as Roseline had stipulated for no certain time being allowed her, to prepare for the awful change which was to take place in the situation, her father, eager to put it beyond the power of any earthly contingency to disappoint his wishes, availed himself of the omission, and determined to hurry matters as much as possible. In fact, the horror of her father's vow had impressed itself so deeply on the mind of Roseline, and introduced such a train of distracting images, as lessened the apprehension of what might happen to herself.

It was now publicly said, that the important event was very soon to take place, and the joyous bustle which succeeded plainly shewed, the report was not without foundation. The surprise and consternation of Edwin are not to be described; he sought and obtained an interview with his sister, who, without absolutely betraying her promise to her father, or explaining how her consent had been extorted, said enough to convince him that compulsion, in some shape or other, had been made use of to force her into measures so entirely repugnant to her feelings, that he feared would involve her in irretrievable wretchedness, and he took his resolutions accordingly.

The enamoured lover, after hearing such unexpected and pleasant intelligence from his friend, requested an audience with the lovely arbitress of his fate. He was accordingly admitted.

Roseline made no attempt to deny having given her consent to become his wife; but the freezing coldness of her manner, and the continued dejection still visible on her artless and expressive countenance, served to increase his doubts; and, so far was it from exciting his compassion, it awakened his pride, confirmed his suspicions, and roused them into action: but, as he had no clue to guide him, and could make no discovery sufficiently conclusive to fix his jealously on any particular object, he was under the necessity of trusting to chance, and his own unremitting endeavours, to unravel the mystery he suspected. Actuated by a sullen kind of resentment, he determined at all events to avail himself of the power thrown into his hands to obtain his desires, resolving, if ever he discovered she loved any man in preference to himself, to sacrifice the detested object of her regard to the just vengeance of an injured husband.

A few nights after, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, the restless Baron, accompanied by his man Pedro, who had undertaken to conduct him about those parts of the castle contrived to defeat the designs of men when they came with any hostile intentions, but which might be favourable to those of an artful lover, began his silent perambulation.

After descending from the battlements, which he had cautiously pace over, looking into every place he thought likely to conceal the rival he expected to find, he returned by a different route, and accidentally went down the winding stairs of the South tower. The door, leading to the prisoner's apartment, he passed in silence, supposing it a lodging-room belonging to the guards, or some of the domestics.—When, however, he came to the bottom of the stairs; turning to look under a kind of arch-way that seemed to communicate with some other apartments, he was startled, and his doubts received farther confirmation from seeing a door, which led to the dungeon, standing open,—a circumstance that served to convince the Baron all was not right, as those places were in general kept well secured, not only to guard against danger, but to prevent their being seen, as it often happened the safety of the castle depended entirely upon the secret contrivances for their internal defence being unknown to all but the governor.

It happened unfortunately, that Albert, who, after he knew the family were in bed, had descended from his own room in order to fetch something which his master wanted from his former habitation, not supposing he was in danger of being followed by any one, had incautiously neglected to shut this door after him. The Baron, not doubting but he was on the eve of making some important discovery, ordered his man to guard the door, to prevent any one escaping while he proceeded in his search.

Albert, luckily hearing some one enter the passage after him, had likewise his suspicions, though of a very different nature. He concluded no one could come to that place with any good design, and trembled lest some discovery had been made respecting the removal of his master, which might expose him to farther persecutions, and bring on a renewal of his former miseries. Whoever it might be, he determined, if possible, to find out their intention.

Edwin had acquainted him with every circumstance he knew in regard to the distressing situation of his sister, and they had agreed not to inform the unfortunate Walter of the impending storm which threatened him with the deprivation of a treasure far dearer to him than his own existence, and which they concluded would at one fatal blow rob him not only of every hope that he had so long and fondly cherished, but even of life itself.

Albert was soon convinced that he person who had followed him was no other than the haughty imperious Baron, the rival of his beloved master, and the destroyer of that fabric on which he had rested his security for happiness. He carried a lighted candle in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, and appeared wondrously curious about something which Albert, not in the humour to put the most favourable construction on his actions, concluded must be mischief.—Thus put upon his guard, he cautiously locked the door which led to his master's former apartments, and, as he was well acquainted with every avenue, each turning and winding in the curious labyrinths of these cheerless regions, he had no fears for his own safety, knowing that it was easy to elude the search of one who was a stranger to them; but, as he did not suppose the Baron (let the business which brought him there be what it might) came entirely unattended, it behoved him to act with the utmost circumspection.

In a little time he observed the Baron had entered the damp unwholesome square that was surrounded by the still more gloomy and unfriendly habituations contrived to render life a worse punishment than the most cruel death. He looked carefully into every on of them, and, coming to that in which stood the coffin before mentioned in this narrative, and seeing the black cloth, by which it had once been covered, now hanging in mouldering and tattered fragments around it, a silent memento of that destroying hand which spares neither the dead nor the living, urged, as we may suppose, by one of those sudden irresistible impulses which we are often actuated to obey against the dictates of sober reason, he stept in, and in an attitude of thoughtful meditation, struck with the horrid scenes which till now his eyes had never encountered, unknowing what he did, he placed one foot on the top of the sad receptacle, on which his looks were bent in serious reflection, when, awful and dreadful to relate, a deep groan issued from the coffin, and a voice exclaimed,—"Forbear, you hurt me!—you will crush my bones to powder!"

The Baron started, and flew back so violently, that he struck his head against the opposite wall.—A moment's reflection, however, served to inspire him with more resolution, and to convince him that this could not be real;—it must be the wild effects of his own distempered imagination;—the dead were never heard to speak, and why a voice from the grave should be sent to him he could not comprehend. He determined therefore not to be alarmed, not driven from his purpose; when, in the next instant, the same voice, as if it knew the thoughts which floated in his mind, addressed him a second time in a rather louder and more authoritative tone from another part of the dungeon, and warned him not to interrupt the peaceful slumbers of the dead. Again called upon, it could not be delusion. Some one,—a lover perhaps, was concealed in that coffin, from which he was to be frightened like a school-boy. In an instant, with one violent blow, he crushed the mouldring abode of its insensible inhabitant to pieces, and a heap of bones were then presented to his sight, which had once belonged to a creature like himself, endowed perhaps with feelings more generous and humane than those which dwelt in the bosom of the man who had thus insulted its humble remains.

"Cause my bones to be decently put in the grave! (said the voice a second time from the coffin,) and from me fear nothing, but tremble for yourself!"—Now rendered desperate by terror, and shocked at the recollection of the scene he had encountered, the Baron eagerly wished to get from a situation so calculated to instill every kind of fear into the mind, if unaccompanied by the still greater horrors which had so wonderfully occurred to increase them; but, well knowing, if he were discovered in such a situation, it must subject him to various suspicions, among which those of a treasonable nature might probably be numbered.—He determined to brave it out, and retire without making any alarm, not doubting but an explanation would equally expose him to censure and ridicule.

As a last effort, however, he mustered courage enough to inquire in a tremulous tone, "What is it I hear?—If a man, let him come forth, and declare his wrongs; I will undertake to defend and right them."

"Can the man (replied his mysterious companion, who now appeared to be close to him) expect being believed when he offers to revenge wrongs of which he never heard complaint? Can he who oppresses others, and is deaf to the sufferings of innocence, think to purchase pardon by the appearance of mercy?—Mend your own heart;—leave this castle:—then the living and the dead will sleep in peace."

The Baron now shook with terror; and called for no farther explanation, but, as quickly as his trembling legs could carry him, began to explore the same way back by which he had gained admittance. Just as he reached the bottom of those stairs which Edwin and his fair companions had so often descended to make their benevolent visits to the prisoner, his ear was again arrested by the same invisible monitor. "Rob not this castle of its treasure:—search to find one more dear, whom you may render happy, who long has suffered imprisonment and wrongs."

Again he stopped. The words vibrated on his ear, and then all was silent. At length he proceeded in his miserable progress, and distinguished the distant sound of footsteps, which he concluded were the centinels on guard, and was soon afterwards revived by hearing the watch proclaim the hour of night. He now eagerly rushed on-wards, and found, thought Pedro had not deserted his post, he was fast locked in the arms of sleep, and snoring as soundly as if his weary limbs had rested on a bed of down. He was awakened by a hearty shake from his master, and ordered to lead the way to his chamber.

Pedro, glad to be released from an employment for which he had no great relish, rejoiced at hearing the welcome mandate, and humbly inquired if he had made any discovery. The answer he received was,—that all was safe and quiet in the castle, and that he believed his fears and suspicions had been hastily formed, and had no foundation.

The Baron, however, was not exactly in that state of serenity and composure of which he endeavoured to assume the appearance.—That voice!—what could it mean?—from whom, and from what quarter could it come?—It might be the echo of some one confined in a cell over his head, or beneath his feet. It could not allude to him, or it might be a contrivance to alarm him from his purpose; yet, if he mentioned it to his friend, he would treat it as the delusion of a distempered fancy.

All he could determine upon doing was to hasten the preparations for his marriage, and, if Roseline should be over-ruled by her father, and give him her hand with reluctance, the fault would bring it punishment upon their own heads; but he still hoped that, when once she became his wife, and saw herself surrounded with splendor, her coy airs would be done away: she would set a proper value on his love and generosity, and as Baroness Frizosbourne be the happiest of her sex.—With such consoling and fallacious hopes he endeavoured to banish his doubts, and compose himself to rest, and, soon forgetting Isabella, and the warning voice of his invisible monitor, he sunk into the arms of sleep.