Bungay Castle: A Novel. v. 1/2

by Mrs. Bonhote

But, as no character on earth can be found without having some of the weakness and frailty of erring mortality annexed to it, the author does not mean to present Lady de Morney to their view as a being entirely faultless. She was vain of her high birth, being allied to nobility; and so partial to her eldest son, that she could scarcely suffer him to be out of her sight; yet her partiality originated from a circumstance so interesting and affecting to all who knew it, that, though it might by some be considered as a weakness, it was by none but herself condemned as a fault. When her son was in his infancy, she was seized with a fever of so malignant a nature, as deprived her for some weeks of her senses: during this distressing period of her delirium, and in the absence of her nurse, she one day snatched the infant from the arms of a young woman, his attendant, and, before any one was aware of her design, ran out of the house, and with almost incredible swiftness down a long gravel walk to the bottom of the garden, and threw him into a lake, by which it was bounded. By the fortunate and timely assistance of an old and faithful servant, who was luckily at work near the spot, and who had hastened to it on seeing his lady so unexpectedly make her appearance, the family were alarmed, and the child providentially, but with difficulty, saved.

This incident, of which she was unguardedly informed, made so forcible an impression on the mind of this susceptible and affectionate parent, as she could not shake off: it created an additional claim upon her heart for every tender indulgence, and gave to every juvenile action and good quality redoubled value. He had in a manner been raised from death, rescued from a watery grave, into which her own, a mother's, hand had hurled him; and yet he loved her, as her fond and plaintive partiality led her often to imagine, better than the rest of her children. She would sometimes embrace this darling son, and, with all the enthusiasm of maternal tenderness, tremble at the horrid remembrance of having so nearly deprived him of an existence that added so much to the happiness of her own. To all her children Lady de Morney was an indulgent parent; but for Edwin she felt that indescribable fondness which not only threw a veil over his failings, but robbed her of that fortitude and energy with which she acted on all other occasions. So far from attempting to deny any request he made, it was her study to prevent his wishes. She would at times apologize to the rest of her children for the extreme affection nature had implanted, and which she could not help cherishing for their brother, but which she regretted as a weakness she was unable to conquer. This conduct served to reconcile the young people to a partiality which originated from so singular and awful an incident, and, so far from shewing either envy or regret, it seemed to endear their mother's favourite to their youthful and guileless hearts. Another circumstance, which equally helped to reconcile them, was the sweetness of Edwin's disposition, who as often availed himself of his mother's indulgence to gratify and make them happy, as he did to obtain any of her favours for himself.

In a situation from which thousands of her sex and age would have shrunk disgusted and affrighted, Lady de Morney was cheerful and contented. The rooms were Gothic and gloomy, but her husband and children enlivened every place they inhabited. She was at times surrounded by and exposed to dangers; but her beloved De Morney and his faithful people were ever near to protect and guard her. She was the wife of a noble soldier, and she had acquired a fortitude almost equal to his from the knowledge of his unfailing courage, which gained energy from danger, and redoubled ardour from difficulty.

The castle itself could boast few internal beauties, but her children, whom she saw playful as youthful fawns, and happy as health, innocence, and unbroken spirits, could make them, were treasures inexhaustible: they beheld the rough implements of war without terror or dismay, instructed by their father to consider them as the only ornaments fitted for a soldier. The young De Morneys were taught the use of arms as soon as they had learned to walk.

Seldom were the Gothic gates of the castle unbarred to admit the social friend or gay companion to the festive board; seldom did the voice of mirth and jollity echo through the lofty rooms and vaulted passages; but a sweet serenity supplied their place, which, having lost during the absence of her husband, at an early period of her marriage, Lady de Morney now felt the full value of possessing; and, though secluded from the gaudy pleasure of a court, she felt herself a gainer by the exchange in the balance of happiness.—Lady de Morney had a sister, who was placed by the Lady Gundreda as superior in the nunnery of Bungay; with her she spent many of her leisure hours: between them the tenderest friendship strengthened the endearing ties in which they were united by nature.

The abbess was a pious, but yet she was a young and interesting woman, of a benevolent and placid disposition; and, though she had voluntarily secluded herself from the world, she was not so much disgusted with its pleasures as she felt herself wounded by the severity of its disappointments.—Early in life, death had deprived her of a lover who had engaged her most animated and ardent affection, and with whom she had indulged the fond hope of being united in the indissoluble bands of Hymen; but adverse fate had ordained it otherwise, and those virtues and good qualities which had made him inexpressibly dear to her, rendered his loss the more exquisitely painful. With him the world lost all its power to charm, and she resolutely determined to fly that world for ever, and never to permit another lover to displace the sainted Henry from her heart; she therefore unreluctantly withdrew from the varying and busy scenes of life,—not to avoid temptation, but to be able to indulge, in the gloomy shades of a nunnery, the memory of a man, to whose worth and constancy she deemed no sacrifice too great. Time served to convince her of the wisdom of her choice; and, giving way to all the luxury of a pure but romantic imagination, she encouraged the consoling hope, that, if her regretted Henry were permitted to know what was acting in this lower world, his spirit would be gratified by the purity of her choice, and his heart convinced of the unabating strength of her affection. She often flattered herself that her Henry was deputed to watch her conduct, and would be the first to convey her to the bright regions of immortality; yet, though thus severely tried in the lessons of affliction, she troubled no one with a repetion of her sorrows; and, though she often wept in all the bitterness of anguish, her tears fell when no one observed them, and only to the ear of her sympathizing sister did she venture to mention a name so dear and so beloved.

Young Edwin de Morney, whom we have already mentioned, was at this period in his seventeenth year, and, notwithstanding the unbounded indulgence of his mother, he had made a rapid proficiency in every part of his education. Nature had been equally liberal of her favours to his mind and person: his temper was good,—his manners and conversation those of the gentleman and the scholar, and, with all the interesting gaiety and natural cheerfulness of youth, he united a benevolent and susceptible heart.

His eldest sister, Roseline, was only one year younger than himself; her form was small, but symmetry itself, every limb so nicely turned, it would have been chosen by a statuary for the model of a Venus: her face was beautiful in the extreme; her eyes expressive and sparkling, and the smile which shewed itself was of that irresistible kind as caught the attention and won the heart; and it would have been difficult for a connoisseur in beauty to point out which feature it was that had the greatest claim to admiration, while the unfading and fascinating beauties of her polished mind, which was stored with all the graces the best education could bestow, or the most lively genius acquire, rendered her conversation as delightful as her manners were captivating. She played on the lute, and warbled her artless song in strains so sweet, as would have rivalled the daughters of Italy. Her heart, unwounded by the barbed thorn of affliction, and free from the entanglements of love, was like one of the first days of infant-spring, which, enlivened by the bright rays of an unclouded and all-cheering sun, serves not only to revive, but to embellish the whole face of inanimate nature, just bursting into life, and rendering all its sweetly modest beauties of redoubled value to those who had lingered through a dreary winter, in eager expectation of its approach. Lively as the birds which hovered round the turrets of the castle, she entered gaily into all the youthful sports of her brothers and sisters. To the little blooming Edeliza she was particularly attached; and, though she saw her as beautiful as herself, felt neither envy nor regret in the reflection. No modish complaints filled her with imaginary terrors, and, as she had known no sorrows, she thought it not only incumbent on her to shew her gratitude to heaven and her parents, but to soften, by every benevolent attention in her power, the miseries and misfortunes of others.

In those days, the education of young women was completed at a more early period than in the present; and, if the manners were not altogether so highly finished, or the mind so profusely decorated, or rather fettered, with innumerable, and, to too many, useless accomplishments, the time was undoubtedly more rationally employed, and the fair sex less exposed to the allurements of flattery and the dangers of temptation: though more retired in their habits, and reserved in their manners, they were neither less susceptible of the tender passions, nor less fervent or sincere in their attachments.

Roseline had formed an early friendship with a young lady educated in the Bungay nunnery, of which her aunt, fortunately for the young people, was the superior. This sweet victim of ambition was designed by a proud and haughty father for the monastic life, in order to enable him to provide more liberally for the rest of the children. She had not yet however entered on the year of her novitiate; but it was soon to commence, and, at its awful close, she was to bid a final adieu to that world, to which her heart had of late become too tenderly and anxiously attached. As it approached, time seemed to wing his flight with redoubled rapidity, and she felt a trembling dread that her fortitude, like a false friend, would forsake her in the hour of trial, and a trembling presentiment that the moment, which shut her from the society at the castle, would exclude her from every prospect of happiness; yet this repugnance to obey the will of her parents was new to her mind:—she dared not investigate the cause too nicely, lest she should find a subject for self-condemnation. She found, with painful regret, a troublesome guest was admitted to her bosom, and she was afraid, in attempting to become more intimately acquainted with its prevailing influence, she should permit the stranger to gain greater ascendancy.