The few necessary articles which had been allowed him in his former abode were now removed to his present one, and such added as would tend to his comfort and convevience. As his food in the dungeon had been conveyed to him by means of a turning cupboard, his having vacated it could not be known so long as Albert attended at the proper times to receive it; and, Edwin having shewn him another secret way, which led from under the stairs in the South tower to his old habitation, he would be able to go as often as he pleased, without any danger of being discovered.
It was now two months after the prisoner's removal before Sir Philip de Morney was able to fix a time for his return. A letter than arrived, in which he mentioned, that, by the end of another fortnight, he hoped to reach the castle. He informed Lady de Morney that he should bring a friend with him for whom he had the highest regard, and he trusted she would make such necessary preparations for his reception, as would serve not only to prove the sincerity of his attachment, but the high respect and esteem in which he was held by the rest of the family; telling her it was no less a personage than Baron Fitzosbourne, whose friendship had done him much honour, and in whose society he found pleasure.
Lady de Morney, who perfectly understood by her husband's letter, how anxious he was that his friend should be received with the utmost splendour and hospitality, gave such orders as she hoped would please the one and gratify the other.
In the mean while, the prisoner made such rapid improvements, as astonished and delighted his youthful instructors. He was indefatigable in storing his mind with all the knowledge the best authors could impart. With returning health his memory regained its former power, and all the natural and brilliant faculties of his mind recovered their usual strength, and proved he was endowed with more than common capacity and genius. His elegant form, animated features,—the serene, ensnaring gentleness of his manners, and the mild sweetness of his disposition, unfolded themselves by degrees, and endeared him beyond expression to his friends.
As a curious and rare plant, guarded by the active hand, and watched by the careful eye of the gardener, raises or depresses his hopes at first putting forth its tender blossoms, till a kind and congenial season brings it to maturity, and its beauties, suddenly bursting on the sight, prove an ample reward for his fostering care,—so did the heart of Roseline expand and rejoice at every proof the prisoner gave of the goodness of his disposition, and the superior excellence of his understanding.
It was clearly visible to Edwin and to Albert that a mutual passion united the prisoner and Roseline, while every fleeting hour served more and more to endear them to each other. Edwin, already entangled in the toils of hopeless love, and enduring all the pangs of despair and apprehension, trembled for the fate of a sister for whom he felt an uncommon degree of fraternal affection, but to whom he could not prevail on himself to mention a subject so delicate and distressing. The prisoner made no attempt to conceal his ardent love for Roseline:—it was an effort as far beyond his comprehension as his power, and, though, he made no formal declaration, every word, look, and action, betrayed the situation of his heart. Of the world he was totally ignorant; of marriage he had not even thought,—that being a subject on which they had never conversed, and his own situation, desperate and hopeless as it was, now seldom engaged his attention. Roseline, and Roseline alone, engrossed his every idea: while he saw her smile, and heard the sound of her voice, he was contented and happy, and, when she was absent, the wish, of rendering himself more worthy and better able to converse with her, stimulated him to pay unremitting attention to his own improvement, and the instructions he received; but, had he been assured he should see her no more, he would have sunk into the same apathy and indifference for life and its enjoyments from which her kindness had drawn him.
After Madeline had left the castle, and before the return of Sir Philip, Edwin, at the utmost risk of discovery, which would have involved him and the object of his regard in danger and difficulties, prevailed upon her to grant him several interviews in the chapel of the nunnery. One night, Albert, having agreed to accompany him through the subterranean passage, the trembling nun met them at their entrance, and seated near the tomb which concealed the door, listened to the vows of her lover.—Equally reluctant to part, they sat longer than usual, and heard footsteps in the chapel. Madelin rightly concluded it was one of the friars come to say mass for the soul of a nun lately dead. When the ceremony was ended he departed, and, as the door closed after him, the resolution of Madeline revived. She knew if they had been discovered, even the life of Edwin would not be secure, and that she should instantly be compelled to take those vows from which there was no release but death.
Her own imprudence, and the danger to which her lover was exposed, struck so forcibly upon her mind, that after he left her she could scarcely acquire courage to return to the nunnery; and, as she passed the aweful and silent receptacles of the dead, she was almost led to think she heard a friendly voice warn her never again to be guilty of so sacrilegious a crime. She glided quickly by the grave of the nun who had been interred but a few days, and even imagined she could perceive the earth move.—She had no sooner reached the cell, (into which she hurried without daring to look to the right or to the left, lest she should see the frowning spirit of some departed sister,) than she fell on her knees, and earnestly intreated forgiveness of the holy virgin. The next morning, far from finding her terrors abate, they fained still greater ascendancy over her mind, by hearing that father Anselm had been making inquiries about some footsteps he had observed in the chapel when he went to early prayers. Recollecting the unguarded warmth of Edwin's temper, and the eager tenderness with which in an hour of yielding softness he prevailed upon her to indulge him with these stolen interviews, she was fearful of acquainting him that it was her determination to grant no more.—She wrote to her friend Roseline, and entreated her to persuade her brother not to make any attempts in future to see her in the chapel; but to them she left the power of procuring as many opportunities as possible of meeting without danger. She sincerely lamented being obliged to deprive herself of the company of a lover to whom she was tenderly attached, and for whose sake she was become an unwilling votary in the service of her God.
This letter was instantly communicated to Edwin by his sister. He could not at first be easily reconciled to a measure so repugnant to his feelings; but Roseline adding her intreaties to those of Madeline, and pointing out the necessity of it, he became more willing to observe the greatest caution, and to practise the most rigid present self-denial, in order to secure his future happiness. She reminded him this it was now four months before Madeline would enter on her year of probation, previous to which something might happen favourable to their wishes; observing, that their mother could at any time prevail upon the abbess to grant Madeline leave for visiting the castle. These arguments had so much effect, that Edwin promised his sister to make no farther clandestine attempts to see her friend, till all other means were rendered impracticable.
It happened about this time that Roseline was prevented, by a slight indisposition, from visiting the prisoner for four or five days. At first his alarm and distress were unspeakable. It was scarcely possible to convince him that it was owing to ill health he did not see her, and his restless impatience would have now betrayed the secret of his heart, had it not before been discovered. He neither ate not slept; all his spirits forsook him: the sun was no longer admired, the moon and stars were deprived of their lustre. He wished to shun the light, and, had all nature been lost in universal chaos, it had been a matter of indifference now he saw not Roseline: he wondered what he could have found to admire in any thing with which she was not connected.