Bungay Castle: A Novel. v. 1/2

by Mrs. Bonhote

Lady de Morney and Roseline accompanied her to the nunnery, and delivered her up to the maternal care of the abbess, and the protection of father Anselm. They both appeared pleased and satisfied with her ready compliance with their commands, and rejoiced to see her look so well. They had suffered great anxiety on her account, and the father, who had visited her frequently during her indisposition, and had cherished bu few hopes of her recovery, now told her he trusted she would not more wish to forsake their holy sanctuary, as he doubted not her illness was a penance inflicted by Providence for leaving it at a season so particularly appropriated to the sacred duties of the church.

Roseline, before she left the nunnery, accompanied Madeline to her cell, the abbess having granted her this indulgence. Here they unobserved gave way to the sad luxury of tears. They wept on each other's bosom, and the sobbing Madeline, deaf to the soothing consolations of her sympathizing friend, requested her to present Edwin with her grateful acknowledgements for his many kind attentions, and which in the moment of parting she was unable to express. She hoped he would not forget her, and begged his sister to assure him, that, if she were compelled to take the veil, she should retain his image in her heart, though her life were dedicated to the service of her God. She likewise cautioned Roseline to beware, and guard against the fly and dangerous intrusions of love, which brought with them innumerable sorrows, and never to encourage hopes, as she had done, which she feared would end in disappointment and misery.

Roseline knew these hints alluded to the prisoner; the blush which tinged her cheek convinced her friend she was perfectly understood. Indeed, she had before ventured to tell her, that, in her attentions to relieve the miseries she commiserated, she might become too tenderly a sharer in them, and, in freeing the captive from his fetters, might herself be enslaved. Roseline thanked her friend, but denied the caution being necessary, and instantly tool her leave, in order to put an end to a conversation which now became unpleasant, and gave her more pain than she chose to acknowledge.

The evening, as may be supposed, passed slowly and heavily at the castle. Roseline felt unfeigned regret at the departure of her friend, and Edwin found in her absence the deprivation of happiness; yet, as it was unavoidable, he determined as much as possible to conceal his distress from the prying eye of suspicion, and to employ every hour he could command, in the service of the unfortunate prisoner, to whom he felt himself irresistibly and unaccountably attached; but Edwin, amidst his family at the castle, was not less internally wretched than poor Madeline, counting her beads in her silent and solitary cell.

At the usual time Roseline and her brother revisited the interesting object of her compassion. He expressed such rapture at seeing them, and made so many acknowledgements for their friendship, that their minds became insensibly harmonized, and their attention engaged.

Edwin now for the first time proposed removing his friend from the dungeon to the haunted chamber, which no one dared to approach, and which we before mentioned as having an entrance from the South tower. Roseline obtained permission of her mother to keep possession of the apartment into which she had accompanied Madeline; therefore they thought his removal could be easily accomplished without any risk of a discovery. It was agreed that Albert should attend the cells in order to take away the provision regularly carried there. All these matters settled, the following evening was appointed for the accomplishment of their purpose, at the same time Edwin cherished the most sanguine hopes that, with the assistance of Albert, and by means of the subterraneous passage, he might sometimes obtain a stolen interview with Madeline.

The next night Edwin, his sister, and Albert, accompanied the prisoner to his destined apartment; but to describe his gratitude and joy, at finding himself in a situation so comfortable and airy, would be impossible. Every thing was new and delightful, and in the morning, when the light (which but dimly enlivened his chamber on his arrival) broke in upon his astonished sight, his raptures were alarming, and his faithful attendant, with the utmost difficulty, prevailed on him to confine them within the bounds of moderation, and cautiously to indulge himself in looking at objects so surprising, but to other people so familiar, they they seldom could spare a moment to contemplate them.

When he viewed the sun, from one of the windows of his room, rising in its utmost splendor, had not Albert prevented him, he had fallen on his knees, and worshipped the brilliant luminary.—He observed the birds with ecstacy, as they lightly skimmed through the boundless regions of the air, and listened with a kind of throbbing agitation as the lark warbled forth her morning oraisons, and, not till he had shed tears, could he reduce his feelings to any degree of composure. He admired the trees; his eyes rested on some of the distant hills, and he told Albert he did not think the world had been so large and fine a place. He next amused himself with looking round his apartment, and at every little interval gave way to the effusions of genuine transport.

Can it be wondered that so helpless a being should feel, on experiencing such a change, more than mere language could express! Liberated from misery by the benevolence of strangers,—a thousand comforts bestowed which he had despaired of ever tasting, his gratitude was as unlimited as his joy, and I am sure all my readers will pardon him for still continuing to think his benefactors more than mortal; yet at times he could recollect, with a sigh of trembling regret, the dangers to which they exposed themselves in order to make him happy.—Their parents, too, might shut them in a dungeon for their disobedience. These reflections fortunately abated the fervour of this high wrought feelings, or in all probability he would have brought on a return of those complaints which had so much interested his young friends in his behalf.—In a few hours he became more composed, and endeavoured to remark every thing around him with serenity. As he was now situated, Edwin and his sister could see him several times a day without inconvenience or danger, and, to guard against any surprise, they had taken care to lock the door at the foot of the stairs, strongly fastened it within-side, and concealed the key, that none of the family might wander that way.

In the evening, a new scene presented itself to the fight of the prisoner, The moon and stars were pointed out to him by Edwin. At first he mistook the moon for another sun, less brilliant, but as beautiful. The stars he called little suns, and attempted to count their number; and, while his eyes were raised in silent rapture to the spangled firmament, he inquired why so much more pains had been taken to decorate the heavens for the night, when mortals slept, than for the day, when all nature was awake to wonder and adore. So delighted was he with the sombre beauties of this all astonishing scene, that it was with the utmost difficulty, after Edwin left him, that Albert could prevail upon him to think of retiring to rest. No sooner however was he convinced that his faithful attendant had lost in the arms of sleep all remembrance of those scenes which kept him waking, than her softly stole to the window, where he remained till the dews of night and the cold blasts of an easterly wind drove him again to his bed.