The baron went with Oswald into the parlour.
“Now tell me, father,” said he, “do you disapprove what I have done?”
“Quite the contrary, my lord,” said he; “I entirely approve it.”
“But you do not know all my reasons for it. Yesterday Edmund’s behaviour was different from what I have ever seen it—he is naturally frank and open in all his ways; but he was then silent, thoughtful, absent; he sighed deeply, and once I saw tears stand in his eyes. Now, I do suspect there is something uncommon in that apartment—that Edmund has discovered the secret; and, fearing to disclose it, he is fled away from the house. As to this letter, perhaps he may have written it to hint that there is more than he dares reveal; I tremble at the hints contained in it, though I shall appear to make light of it. But I and mine are innocent; and if Heaven discloses the guilt of others, I ought to adore and submit to its decrees.”
“That is prudently and piously resolved, my lord; let us do our duty, and leave events to Heaven.”
“But, father, I have a further view in obliging my kinsmen to sleep there:—if anything should appear to them, it is better that it should only be known to my own family; if there is nothing in it, I shall put to the proof the courage and veracity of my two kinsmen, of whom I think very indifferently. I mean shortly to enquire into many things I have heard lately to their disadvantage; and, if I find them guilty, they shall not escape with impunity.”
“My lord,” said Oswald, “you judge like yourself; I wish you to make enquiry concerning them, and believe the result will be to their confusion, and your Lordship will be enabled to reestablish the peace of your family.”
During this conversation, Oswald was upon his guard, lest anything should escape that might create suspicion. He withdrew as soon as he could with decency, and left the baron meditating what all these things should mean; he feared there was some misfortune impending over his house, though he knew not from what cause.
He dined with his children and kinsmen, and strove to appear cheerful; but a gloom was perceivable through his deportment. Sir Robert was reserved and respectful; Mr. William was silent and attentive; the rest of the family dutifully assiduous to my Lord; only Wenlock and Markham were sullen and chagrined. The baron detained the young men the whole afternoon; he strove to amuse and to be amused; he showed the greatest affection and parental regard to his children, and endeavoured to conciliate their affections, and engage their gratitude by kindness. Wenlock and Markham felt their courage abate as the night approached; At the hour of nine, old Joseph came to conduct them to the haunted apartment; they took leave of their kinsmen, and went upstairs with heavy hearts.
They found the chamber set in order for them, and a table spread with provision and good liquor to keep up their spirits.
“It seems,” said Wenlock, “that your friend Edmund was obliged to you for his accommodations here.”
“Sir,” said Joseph, “his accommodations were bad enough the first night; but, afterwards, they were bettered by my lord’s orders.”
“Owing to your officious cares?” said Wenlock.
“I own it,” said Joseph, “and I am not ashamed of it.”
“Are you not anxious to know what is become of him?” said Markham.
“Not at all, sir; I trust he is in the best protection; so good a young man as he is, is safe everywhere.”
“You see, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “how this villain has stole the hearts of my uncle’s servants; I suppose this canting old fellow knows where he is, if the truth were known.”
“Have you any further commands for me, gentlemen?” said the old man.
“No, not we.”
“Then I am ordered to attend my lord, when you have done with me.”
“Go, then, about your business.”
Joseph went away, glad to be dismissed.
“What shall we do, cousin Jack,” said Wenlock, “to pass away the time?—it is plaguy dull sitting here.”
“Dull enough,” said Markham, “I think the best thing we can do, is to go to bed and sleep it away.”
“Faith!” says Wenlock, “I am in no disposition to sleep. Who would have thought the old man would have obliged us to spend the night here?”
“Don’t say us, I beg of you; it was all your own doing,” replied Markham.
“I did not intend he should have taken me at my word.”
“Then you should have spoken more cautiously. I have always been governed by you, like a fool as I am; you play the braggart, and I suffer for it; But they begin to see through your finespun arts and contrivances, and I believe you will meet with your deserts one day or other.”
“What now? do you mean to affront me, Jack? Know, that some are born to plan, others to execute; I am one of the former, thou of the latter. Know your friend, or—”
“Or what?” replied Markham; “do you mean to threaten me? If you do!”
“What then?” said Wenlock.
“Why, then, I will try which of us two is the best man, sir!”
Upon this Markham arose, and put himself into a posture of defence. Wenlock perceiving he was serious in his anger, began to soothe him; he persuaded, he flattered, he promised great things if he would be composed. Markham was sullen, uneasy, resentful; whenever he spoke, it was to upbraid Wenlock with his treachery and falsehood. Wenlock tried all his eloquence to get him into a good humour, but in vain; he threatened to acquaint his uncle with all that he knew, and to exculpate himself at the other’s expense. Wenlock began to find his choler rise; they were both almost choaked with rage; and, at length, they both rose with
