It may not perhaps, in this place, be improper to mention, that, a few years since, a person came to St. Edmund's Bury, in Suffolk, whose uncommon and wonderful powers of throwing his voice to any distance, and into whatever place he chose, alarmed some, and surprised all who witnessed this strange and almost unaccountable phenomenon of nature; therefore, in an age so much more prone to indulge the idle chimaeras of superstition, so much under the dictatorial bigotry of priestcraft, it is not to be wondered that a circumstance so uncommon should be considered as miraculous, particularly among a set of men who had recourse to such various arts, and took such wonderful pains to instill into the minds of the people a firm and unshaken belief that miracles were shewn on some important occasions, in order to confirm the truth of the religion they professed.
CHAP. VIII.
By following the cautious directions of Albert, Madeline escaped from the nunnery undiscovered, and, accompanied by her lover, lost, in the happiness of the present moment, all remembrance of the trials she had sustained, and all apprehensions of what she might encounter in future. Edwin, from a principle of honour, did not inform his friends, De Willows, De Clavering and Camelford, of his intention; the only tax he levied on their friendship was to borrow a small sum of money of them to supply present exigencies, and procure such accommodations on the road as would be most agreeable and convenient to his fair companion.
About midnight he led the trembling agitated maid, unattended by any one but himself, to the entrance of the subterranean passage. With difficulty and danger they made their way through this scene of desolation and terror. Having opened the door which led them through the same gloomy paths Edwin had formerly traced, they narrowly escaped being discovered by the centinels who guarded Mettingham-Castle.—Alarmed at their danger, they made not a moment's delay, but hurried on till they came to a retired and almost unfrequented road, where they found a man and horses waiting their arrival. These horses had been hired of a countryman, who agreed to send for them the next morning to a neighbouring town.
Though money was undoubtedly very scarce in the age in which the characters lived that furnished us with these memoirs, yet the necessaries of life were all so cheap, and the people in general so extremely hospitable, that it required but a moderate sum to procure accommodations for a journey to the most distant part of the kingdom, and, as there was then no marriage-act in force, the road to the temple of Hymen was more frequented, because it was neither found so difficult nor so thorny as it has been to too many of the present age.
As to the vulgar and old-fashioned habits of eating and drinking, they are matters in general but little thought of in expeditions under the directions of a god who is too sublime to be satisfied with common food. Our lovers felt so little inconvenience from either hunger or thirst, that they determined to make no delays on their journey, but such as were absolutely necessary. They were epicures only in love, and, till they arrived in London, were perfectly satisfied with such repasts as were to be procured from any of the humble cottages on the road, by which prudent precaution they escaped undiscovered, notwithstanding the clamour their elopement had occasioned.
The morning after their arrival in London, a priest joined their hands in marriage, and rendered indissoluble those tender ties which had long united their hearts in love's most pleasing fetters. Too happy for reflection to interrupt their nuptial joys, too inexperienced to look forward to the consequences of an union thus inauspiciously commenced, and too sanguine to think the fond delusions of love could end but with life, they lived for many days in what might be called the delirium of the senses: in each other they saw and possessed all that constituted their ideas of pleasure. Madeline was the wife of the enamoured Edwin, and he was blest.—Edwin was become the husband and protector of Madeline, what then could she have to fear, for Edwin was the world to her?
Alas! what a pity that so few, so scarce, and so short, are the hours of mortal happiness! and that the fallacious foundation on which we rest such innumerable pleasing hopes, which present to our deluded imaginations the most lovely and inviting prospects, should so soon fall to the ground, and humble our air-built expectations in the dust!
As long as their little fund of worldly wealth held out, our new married lovers never recollected it must come to an end, or bestowed a thought on what steps were to be taken to secure the continuance of that felicity they had gone such daring lengths to obtain; but an empty purse soon compelled them to recollect, that two people, however tender their attachment, or superlative their abilities,—however lovely their persons, or captivating their manners, require more substantial food than the god of love will condescend to furnish them with.
Accustomed to affluence, and not knowing what it was to be deprived even of the luxuries of life, they shuddered at the poverty which stared them in the face, and threatened them with absolute starvation: they blushed too at their own inability to procure for themselves the common necessaries of life, and felt some very uncomfortable sensations at being in a stranger's house without the means of paying for their lodging or accommodations. To declare their poverty they were ashamed, and to make themselves and situation known was to run the risk of being separated for ever, as Edwin had no doubt but Madeline would be torn from him, and compelled to a monastic life, if discovered before his friends were reconciled, and would use their interest to procure his pardon.