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Title: John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. II

Author: Richard Cumberland

Release date: September 27, 2022 [eBook #69056]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Lackington, Allen, and Co, 1809

Credits: Sonya Schermann, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN DE LANCASTER: A NOVEL; VOL. II ***





                          JOHN DE LANCASTER.

                              VOLUME II.




                          JOHN DE LANCASTER.

                               A NOVEL.

                                  BY

                      _RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ._

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. II.


                               _LONDON_:

                PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO.
                         TEMPLE OF THE MUSES,
                           FINSBURY-SQUARE.

                                 1809.


           Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.




                          JOHN DE LANCASTER.




                            BOOK THE FIRST.




CHAPTER I.

_The Experiment, as resolved upon by Mr. Philip De Lancaster, is made._


When Philip’s confidential interview with Colonel Wilson was concluded,
he directly bent his course to the chamber of David Williams. It was a
station equally well adapted to the studies of the poet, the astronomer
or the musician, for it was in the high road to the stars, at the very
top of the loftiest turret of Kray-Castle, and far enough exalted above
every living thing, that grovelled on the earth. It is to be lamented
that the fine prospect it commanded was no recommendation of it to blind
David, but the advantages it might have offered to him of inhaling the
refreshing breezes in their greatest purity would have compensated in
part, had it not so happened, that its only casement was not made to
open.

When Philip, whom the love of prospect never could have tempted to
ascend this winding staircase, had with infinite pains landed himself in
David’s airey, the twilight was drawing on, and the sun sinking red
towards his chamber in the west. He found the minstrel seated in his
only chair with his harp between his knees, and on the table before him
his pitcher, which, though of a capacious girth, had been drained of its
contents.

Philip having accosted him and made known his errand in few words, the
old man rose from his seat, and stood with his left hand resting on his
harp, whilst his right was pressed respectfully on his breast--Be it, he
replied, as the son of my patron hath commanded! When David Williams
shall hesitate to obey the heir of this castle, and the descendant of
the ever-honoured De Lancasters, this heart must have forfeited its
duty, and this hand forgotten its accustomed office. Although my brain
is even now in travail and only waits the mollifying aid of another jug
to bring forth, behold me ready! Speak the word only for my son David to
bear my harp, and lead me to the apartment of the lady your spouse, I
will incontinently set forward.

Thank you, my old friend, cried Philip! You do it with good will, and
that is every thing. But what think you of the experiment? Do you hold
with my father in opinion that by the melody of the harp you can drive
the evil spirit out of Mrs. De Lancaster?

Who drove the evil spirit out of Saul, replied the minstrel?

You have said it sure enough, rejoined Philip; but we must proceed
cautiously, and not give her too much of it. A short strain, and
something in her own way, of the pensive cast--You have the name, the
instrument and the art of the royal minstrel, but recollect the peril he
was in, and be aware how you proceed too far in stirring up and
stimulating the passions.

Thus having said, he departed, whilst the hoary-headed enthusiast seized
his harp, and full of the muse called amain for his son to lead him.

Whilst this was passing in the turret, Cecilia with our young hero had
paid an evening visit to Mrs. De Lancaster in her apartment. She was
more than fancifully ill, for her sunken eyes and hectic looks too
plainly indicated a constitution breaking up. Her spirits however were
just now in that kind of nervous flutter, which carries a resemblance to
gaiety, and she was more than ordinarily communicative and disposed to
talk.

Their conversation turned upon the preparations making for the
approaching festival--You will look in upon us I hope, said Cecilia; and
if you apprehend the company will be too much for you, I’ll have the
latticed gallery in the hall kept private, where nobody will molest you.
There will be music, sister, and I flatter myself you have no dislike to
that.

None, replied Mrs. De Lancaster, to music, properly so called, but
infinite dislike and horror for trumpets and cudgel-playing, and noisy
bawling drunkards, who shout over their cups, and rattle them on the
table by way of applause: these are generally the accompaniments of a
Welch carousal.

You have none such to expect with us, believe me, said Cecilia. We shall
not make it a Saint David’s day, take my word for it.

No, cried the invalid, one such as I experienced, when this poor thing
was hurried into the world, has been one too many, and left me more to
struggle with than I shall ever overcome--and here her spirits sunk, and
her countenance assumed a melancholy cast, whilst she turned her languid
eyes upon her son.

I am sorry to hear you talk thus, the gentle Cecilia replied: I was in
hopes, that now when all the troubles of that time are over, you would
have looked back to that day as a day of happiness and comfort. I am
persuaded that your son will never give you cause to regret what you
suffered for his sake; and now that he is in train to receive an
excellent education, what may we not expect from the brilliancy of his
talents, and the virtues of his heart?

Yes, yes, she cried with a desponding sigh, I know what I am to expect
from the education he will receive. Every thing I dare say they will
teach him but humility and that discernment, which might constitute his
happiness. He will split upon the rock, that was so fatal to his
wretched mother, and they, on whom his destiny depends, will immolate
another victim to ambitious fortune and the pride of family.

John’s ready apprehension caught the words, understood their meaning,
and in that instant he resolved to bring them to an explanation,
whenever opportunity might favour his design. She had spoken these words
with a degree of energy, that apparently exhausted her--Poor fellow, she
now said in a faint voice, and reached out her hand, as if inviting him
to approach; he sprung from his seat, respectfully received her hand and
pressed it to his lips--Am I not to blame, she said, addressing herself
to Cecilia, for thus indulging my affection for an object, from whom I
must so soon be parted?

No, my dear sister, replied Cecilia; you are only to blame for
indulging those melancholy thoughts. Exert yourself for the recovery of
your health and spirits; seek amusement in the company of your friends,
resort to air and exercise in the place of medicine and confinement, and
you may live to see all your apprehensions vanish, and your son made
happy, (so may Heaven grant it!) to the completion of your warmest
wishes.

Ah my kind comforter, said the mother, I know full well that medicine
cannot cure my complaints nor exertion restore my spirits. I am sensible
it is not worth my while to seek for a recovery any where, for sure
enough it is no where to be found; yet I will acknowledge to you, that
unless I were obstinately resolved to devote myself to death, I must not
meet another winter in this country. The soft climates of Lisbon or the
South of France may give me a few more weeks; and though I have long
ceased from enjoying life, I am not reconciled in my conscience to the
neglect of any reasonable means for prolonging it. Besides, as I have
all the disposition in the world not to disturb Mr. De Lancaster’s
repose with certain ceremonials, in which he might think it incumbent on
him to take a part, I shall only trouble him to attend upon me to the
sea-side, and leave it to other people in another country to follow me
to the grave. I perceive myself exactly treading in the steps of my poor
mother, and can easily foresee where they will lead me. When she was at
my time of life, (as I well recollect,) she was affected just in the
same manner as I am. My father talked to her as you talk now to me: he
was a kind and tender husband, which, allow me to observe, was one more
comfort in her lot than I have to boast of. She had no child but me, and
I was about John’s age when I saw her for the last time. She was not in
the habit of bestowing any extraordinary caresses upon me, and I seldom
was admitted to her, for her spirits did not allow of it. Upon this last
meeting however she was extremely kind to me, and the circumstance is
the more strongly impressed upon my memory on account of a very singular
occurrence, which I can sometimes reflect upon till I fancy myself in
her very situation, and hearing the same sounds, as seemed to summon my
poor mother to her death-bed.

Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked--Of the most seraphic
sort, Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may
conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss.

By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so
chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was
describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David
Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a
flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that
are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather
meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its
violence.

Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?--It is only
David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to serenade us. If you wish it
to be stopped, I’ll tell him--Upon no account, answered the other, I am
convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is
produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt
at interrupting it.

Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious:
the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time
kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at
times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of
those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying
mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as
the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp.

    “What art thou, Death; that we should fear
      The shadow of a shade?
    What’s in thy name, that meets the ear,
      Of which to be afraid?

    Thou art not care, thou art not pain,
      But thou art rest and peace:
    ’Tis thou can’st make our terrors vain,
      And bid our torments cease.

    Thy hand can draw the rankling thorn
      From out the wounded breast;
    Thy curtain screens the wretch forlorn,
      Thy pallet gives him rest.

    Misfortune’s sting, Affliction’s throes,
      Detraction’s pois’nous breath,
    The world itself and all its woes
      Are swallow’d up in death.”




CHAPTER II.

_Mr. De Lancaster discourses upon the Tactics of the Ancients._


Whilst David Williams was chanting the extemporaneous lay, with which we
concluded the foregoing chapter, the door between him and Mrs. De
Lancaster was ajar; the gallery, in which he was playing, was admirably
disposed for music, and every note came to the ear, mellowed by the
distance without being lost in its passage. The strain was of a
character so simple, and the harmony so pure and flowing in it’s course,
without any of those capricious and false ornaments, which are too often
resorted to, that both the movement and the matter were intelligible to
the hearers, till at the close it burst into such a display of
execution, as called forth all the powers of the instrument, and set off
the art of the master in its highest style of excellence.

When Mrs. De Lancaster perceived that the performance was concluded,
John was told to open the door, and upon his entering the gallery, the
old minstrel was discovered sitting in deep meditation, with his arms
folded round his harp, and his head resting upon the frame of it, whilst
his white locks, long and flowing, hung profusely over his forehead, and
entirely shaded his countenance. He had placed himself opposite to an
antique bow-window, through which a ruddy gleam from the descending sun
directly smote upon his figure, and threw it into tints, that would have
been a study for Rembrandt or Bassan.

The mother and aunt of our hero, who had now joined him in the gallery,
stood for a while contemplating the striking effect, which his attitude
produced. At length Mrs. De Lancaster said--We are obliged to you, Mr.
Williams, for your very charming music: may I ask who is the author of
it?

He, who is the author of my being, he replied, rising up and shaking the
locks from off his forehead; He, that endowed me with a soul, inspired
me with the love of harmony, and what He inspires, I with all humble
devotion endeavour to express.

Can you repeat those passages again?

Lady I cannot. It was not from memory that I played them, and having
played them, I no longer keep them in remembrance. When the approaching
festival shall call on me for my exertions, I hope to produce something
more worthy of your commendation.

Did you come hither of your own accord?

I never come to ladies’ chambers of my own accord.

To whom beside yourself am I indebted for this entertainment?

The son of my patron, your spouse, commanded me to play to you.

Did he so? said Mrs. De Lancaster. I will trouble you no further. She
then wished Cecilia a good night, pressed the hand of her son in token
of a farewel, and turned into her chamber.

Whilst this was passing above stairs, the venerable chief of the De
Lancasters was sitting and conversing over his coffee with Colonel
Wilson and his sons Henry and Edward; for the elder of these brothers,
who was captain of a troop of dragoons, had taken advantage of a few
days furlough to pay a visit to his father before he joined his regiment
in Ireland. Henry was an amiable and well-informed young man, and had
the character of being a very gallant and good officer. De Lancaster
loved a soldier, and was fond of talking to every man upon professional
topics: Henry was highly entertained with the singularity of his
character, and had won the old gentleman’s heart by listening to his
dissertations with the most flattering attention, asking questions and
throwing in remarks occasionally, which proved him to have taken a
lively interest in the subject under discussion, and to be a hearer to
the heart’s content of his communicative host.

Robert De Lancaster had been calling to mind the several passages, that
occurred to him in the grammarians, respecting ancient tactics, and had
gone back to the Trojan war for the purpose of remarking to Captain
Henry, that it did not appear that the Greeks had any cavalry in the
besieging army, except the horses, which they harnessed to their
chariots: that even in the battle of Marathon there were no horse in the
Athenian army, and that it was not till they repulsed Xerxes and were at
peace, that they raised any body of cavalry, and then only three
hundred.

Henry let him proceed without interruption till he got amongst the Roman
cohorts, who, he informed him, did not use saddles till they copied them
from the Germans, and as for stirrups, they had no word, that answered
to them in their language. He remarked that Franciscus Philelphus, who
lived in the time of the fathers, had indeed coined the word _Stapeda_
to express a stirrup, but Budæus in after times had improved upon it by
substituting the compound term of _Subex pedancus_, which he clearly
preferred, and for which he gave Budæus all due credit.

Mr. De Lancaster seemed very candidly disposed to recommend the fashion
of riding without saddle or stirrups, though he himself used both in
their greatest amplitude and richest splendor; the seat of the one being
of blue velvet, and the materials of the other brass proudly gilt. He
even doubted if the Numidians were not the best models for cavalry,
forasmuch as they made use neither of saddle nor bridle, but turned and
stopped their horses with their canes or switches, whilst the Teutonic
horsemen were so adroit in shifting from horse to horse, that they
oftentimes charged their enemy double-mounted; nay, they could manage
four, as Homer witnesses, and he (Mr. De Lancaster) had authority to say
that one of their kings named Teutobocchus, was so excellent a rider,
that he could keep six horses alternately under him, and bring them all
into action at the same time, which he conceived was a very great
advantage to that warlike monarch in a charge. He begged however to be
understood as saying this under correction of the captain’s better
judgment, and seemed to wait in expectation of his decision upon the
reference.

The captain properly observed, that, if King Teutobocchus had a horse
killed under him, he certainly had his choice of five yet left; but if
he was killed himself he stood the chance of leaving six without a rider
to fall into the enemy’s hands; so that much might be said on both
sides.

This answer, which decided neither for nor against King Teutobocchus and
his six chargers, left De Lancaster at liberty to hold to his opinion,
and proceed with his discourse, which now went back to the Romans, who,
till they used saddles, always vaulted on their steeds, training the
young recruits to the practice by drilling them upon wooden horses, till
they were able to mount and dismount upon either side with all their
accoutrements, in which manœuvre the great Pompey was said to be so
expert, as to perform it at full speed, drawing and returning his sword
at the same time with the utmost expedition and correctness. After the
barbarous introduction of saddles Mr. De Lancaster acknowledged that the
Roman horseman was forced to mount either by the aid of the hand, or by
practising his horse to kneel. He took notice that the sword-belt slung
over the shoulder was conformable to ancient custom, but he doubted
whether the sword ought not to be slung on the right side, as the Romans
wore it, and not of so enormous a length, as it was carried to by the
present fashion. He confessed that the Roman trooper with his massy
spear, a shield slung to his horse’s side, a case of three or four stout
javelins with broad blades, and with his helmet and coat of mail, must
have been a cumbrous load upon his charger, and he admitted that his
movements and evolutions could not be very rapid. Speaking of the
standards of the cavalry, he said they were very generally of purple
with the name of the commander worked in gold; though he was aware they
afterwards introduced the figure of the dragon, richly embroidered after
the fashion of the Asiatics. That the devices they wore on their helmets
were of various sorts, according to the fancy of the wearer, but plumes
of peacock’s feathers could only be mounted on the crests of generals of
the highest rank and description. Pyrrhus’s crest was distinguished by
the horns of the goat curiously modelled in fine gold.

He informed his hearers, that when the Roman cavalry were ordered to the
charge, the chief trumpeter, whose station was beside the general,
sounded to make ready; this was answered by the band posted near the
eagles, and when the horse were going down all the trumpets in the army
sounded together, whilst the soldiers shouted out the word for battle,
and that word, though not precisely recorded, he had reason to believe
was FERI! answering to our _Strike home!_ A chorus so tremendous, that
Cato says--The cry of our soldiers is more terrifying to the enemy than
their swords. As for the Greeks, it is well known, he observed, that
they came down to the charge shrieking out their insulting ALALAGMOS! Of
this cry Pân was the inventor, and the terror it created was thence
called Panic: the same Greeks had their Pæan before battle, called the
Aggressive Pæan, and another after battle, called the Pæan of Victory.

With respect to what we call specifically--_the word_ or parolle--that
was given out by the general at pleasure, and was alway of some cheering
and auspicious import--as that of Cæsar, which he made use of in his
African campaign, FELICITAS! that of Brutus, LIBERTAS! that of Augustus,
APOLLO! whilst Cyrus gave out with the signal for battle--JUPITER
SOCIUS, DUX, SERVATOR! _Jupiter, our comrade, our leader, our
preserver!_




CHAPTER III.

_Mr. De Lancaster relates some curious Properties peculiar to certain
Islands._


Mr. De Lancaster had brought his dissertation to a conclusion, when
Philip entered the room: he had been told by David Williams what effect
his experiment had produced, and as it had brought Mrs. De Lancaster out
of her chamber, he had begun to apprehend greater consequences from its
operation, than he was either prepared to encounter, or disposed to
wish, till upon meeting Mr. Llewellyn he was informed by that sagacious
gentleman, that the surprise, into which his patient had been thrown by
the unexpected serenade of David’s harp had proved extremely prejudicial
to her health, and that he thought it of the last consequence to her
life, never to expose her to such dangerous experiments again--I cannot
for my soul conceive, said that learned sage, what expectations you
could form from such a ridiculous chimæra, but to hurry her into fits,
which you have done, and to drive her out of her senses which very
possibly you may do. If I am thus to be interrupted in the management of
her case, how am I to be answerable for her life?

Thus rebuffed by the anti-musical doctor, Philip sought refuge in the
society of the company below stairs from the persecution of those above.
He sate silent and dull, but as this was nothing extraordinary on his
part, nobody concerned themselves about him.

Mr. De Lancaster asked Captain Wilson in what province of Ireland his
regiment was quartered, and upon being answered that it was in Munster,
he gravely observed, that he would then be upon the spot, where, if so
disposed, he might enquire into the truth of the extraordinary
properties recorded by Giraldus Cambrensis of a certain island in the
aforesaid province which, if related by any other than a historian of
his established character for veracity and research, might have
staggered all credulity.

Upon Henry’s desiring to be informed what those properties were--he
replied, I premised that they were extraordinary, and I own to you they
require confirmation, for Giraldus deliberately tells us, that there is
an island in that province, known in his time, and in fact from the time
of Saint Patrick, into which no woman, nor any female creature living,
could enter.

Well done, Giraldus! cried the colonel, that is an interesting discovery
for married men.

A blessed one--said Philip in an under voice.

I hardly think I shall be able to find it, said the captain, and if I
do, I don’t believe I shall chuse it for my head quarters.

It is fitter for a hermitage or a monkish convent, Edward observed.

Hold, cried De Lancaster, I have Giraldus on the table, and here he
tells us of an island, where no woman can be delivered of a child.

Pooh! said the colonel, he is an old woman himself, and can be delivered
of nothing but lies.

Hold, resumed the expounder of Giraldus; here is another island, which
is partly inhabited by good, and partly by evil spirits.

All islands are alike for that, said the colonel.

Have a little patience; we have not done yet with Giraldus’s islands,
for here is one, where dead bodies cannot putrefy; and look! here is
another, that outgoes all the others, where nobody can ever die--Mark
his words--_Nemo unquam moritur, unquam mortuus fuit, vel morte naturali
mori potuit_.

Excellent Giraldus! exclaimed the colonel; if he does but make out his
immortal island to be that which women cannot enter, the grand
desideratum is obtained.

He does not say that, replied De Lancaster.

Then he had better have said nothing about it, Philip cried out from his
corner, for fear our wives should find it out.

At this instant our hero John made his appearance with a most flaming
and tremendous sketch of David Williams, playing on his harp at
sun-down, as he had seen him in the gallery. This was the first unlucky
start of John’s genius in the branch of portrait-painting, and though it
was in the grand gusto of Michael Angelo, it was not quite so good as
Michael Angelo would have made it, though John had bestowed as much red
ink upon it as would have served a merchant’s clerk for a twelve-month.

At the sight of that red ink, so profusely squandered, Philip betrayed
no small alarm, and demanded where he got it. John had found a bottle of
it upon the chimney-piece in his father’s bedroom.

It is not ink, cried Philip; it is the blood of Saint Januarius, and you
have ruined me.

The vehemence of Philip’s exclamation, and the horror of his
countenance, were too ridiculous to be withstood, and even the gravity
of the grandfather was not proof against the laugh.

Hollah! friend John, cried the colonel, you have drawn a devil in the
blood of a saint.

John demanded how long the saint had been dead; and the colonel
answered at a guess, that it was not much more than a thousand years,
but the monks could bring his blood to life again, when they had
occasion for a vial of red ink.

You may make a laughing matter of it, said Philip, but I got it with
considerable difficulty, and not at the price of red ink, assure
yourself.

And what was the use of it, when you had got it, said the colonel?

Sir, replied poor Philip with much solemnity--It has various uses: it is
a preservative against storms by sea or land; against thunder and
lightning; it guards your house from fire, keeps off evil spirits, and
prevents or cures diseases.

And so it may still, said the old gentleman, for the sight of John’s
drawing brings to my recollection the famous recipe, which John De
Gaddesden has bequeathed to us for those, who may be seized with that
terrible disorder the small-pox, and I believe I can give it to you in
his own, or very nearly his own, words--“after the eruption of the small
pox, says that ancient and learned leech, cause the whole body of your
patient to be wrapt in scarlet, or in any other red envelope, and
command every thing about the couch of the sick person to be made red,
for this will be found an excellent and speedy cure. It was in this
manner, he adds, I treated the son of the noble King Edward the Second
of England, when he had the small pox, and I cured him without leaving
any marks.”--This being granted, my grandson’s performance, although not
eminently meritorious for its art, may yet be turned to beneficial
purposes, and Saint Januarius may share the credit of them with John De
Gaddesden.

Philip, who perceived he was not likely to receive any redress, walked
away to meditate in silence over the loss of his miraculous vial. John
was called up to his mother’s apartment, and when there admitted, Betty
was ordered to retire, and she addressed him as will be found in the
following chapter.




CHAPTER IV.

_Our Hero has an Interview with his Mother._


When John had entered his mother’s chamber, and presented himself to
her, she said--As I know that I must prepare myself to meet that
summons, from which no mortal is exempt, sit down by me, and hear what I
have to say; for whilst my senses hold I wish to communicate to you some
particulars, which it imports you to be apprised of, and as they are of
a secret nature, I must rely upon your discretion for understanding what
is due to the confidence, that I am about to repose in you. I suspect
you have been informed by the soldier, who died in this house, of my
attachment to his master Captain Jones--(’Tis very well: I understand
your signal)--He has told you, and I tell you now again, that my whole
life has been embittered by the disappointment and affliction, which I
endured, when rigid honour on his part, and over-ruling duty on mine,
tore me from the arms of that beloved man, and threw me into those of
your unfeeling father. Great as my affection was for Captain Jones, and
implicit as my trust, yet I take it on my soul to assure you, that our
connection was in the strictest sense correctly pure, and after I was
married I never had the fortitude to speak to him, or even see his face.
I state this to you, my dear child, not only that you may have it in
your power conscientiously to put to silence and dismiss all
insinuations against my honour, but also more especially to arm your
mind for ever against those alarming fancies, that might else occur to
you, if in any future period of time the charms, the virtues and
endowments of the daughter should engage your heart, as those of the
father captivated mine.

This angelic girl, (for as such she is represented to me) now lives
with Mrs. Jennings at Denbigh, who has the care of her education, and
on whom my father has settled an annuity for that purpose. I have
bequeathed to Amelia Jones two thousand pounds by will, which is the
only sum I can at present call my own; but if, by the will of
providence, your grandfather should be suddenly taken off before I die,
whatever I may in that case inherit from him I shall leave entirely to
you, and recommend this interesting relict of my lamented friend to your
bounty and protection. And now before I reveal to you the wish, that
lies deepest at my heart, let me furnish you with the means of being
known to her. This case contains a miniature of her father in enamel,
admirably painted, and on the reverse of it under a crystal there is a
lock of his hair. Dear as this relic has been, and still is, to me,
alas! I never more must look upon it, I could not bear it, and must now
endeavour to employ my thoughts in other meditations; take it, my son,
and as your gift present it to Amelia; she will thank you; and if her
gentle character should gain an early interest in your youthful heart,
think of your wretched mother, and resolve against the fatal sacrifice,
that I have made to fortune and connections: what are they, if your
choice goes not with them? what but misery, entailed upon you by the
base surrender of your own natural rights? Ah! my poor child, could I
but cherish a consoling hope, that you will summon courage to assert
those natural rights, and resolutely shun the torrent of those sordid
importunities, that will assail you, I could die in peace.

Live then, replied our hero, live, my mother, in that confirmed
assurance, and believe nothing can shake my fixt determination to follow
my free choice in that event, which must decide my happiness for life.
Fortune I do not want, and for that idle pride, which pedigree entails
on some, who have no other merit, I despise it; all are my equals, who
are not debased in character and conduct: as for Amelia Jones, (forgive
me, madam) being my father’s son, and she the daughter of parents by
their virtues ennobled, I look up to her as my superior; and when I have
the happiness to present to her this valuable relic of her father, I can
well believe my second visit will confirm the impression I received upon
my first.

What do you tell me? Have you visited and seen Amelia?

I should have told you that before, but was afraid the circumstances,
that produced that interview, might agitate and discompose your spirits.

No, no, relate them. If Amelia gave the impression you describe, ’tis
all I wish, ’tis all I pray for.

She appeared, he replied, in loveliness of person, mind and manners to
merit their description, who report her to you as an angelic girl. My
plea for visiting her was to deliver into her hands the wedding ring,
worn by her mother, and sent to her by her father in the care of the
poor soldier, his servant, who on his death-bed entrusted it to me. In
the execution of this delicate commission I was so dazzled, and my
senses were so engrossed by the appearance of an object, beautiful and
impressive beyond my expectations, that the abrupt and awkward manner,
in which I introduced my business, occasioned a surprise on her part,
which for a time overthrew her spirits and deprived me of her company.
In the mean time whilst I was contemplating her father’s portrait, which
hung opposite to me, and in a kind of rhapsody, that I could not
controul, pledging my protection to his lovely daughter, behold, she
stood beside me; and before I could recollect myself I had clasped her
in my arms. Shocked at myself for an action so audacious, I fled out of
the house, and by a note to Mrs. Jennings endeavoured to apologize and
asked forgiveness: it was granted to me on the part of Amelia, but Mrs.
Jennings by her answer to my note imposed upon me the severe condition
of forbearing to intrude upon her charge in the like manner any more.
This I have hitherto obeyed; how then shall I fulfil your orders, and
present this relic to Amelia?

You must write to Mrs. Jennings, state what your commission is, and ask
leave to wait upon her charge. When you have done this, shew me your
letter, and, if I am able, I will add a postscript. Now, my dear son,
beloved of my heart, farewel! my feeble spirits can no longer bear the
agitation this discourse has caused. I am not used to joy; it overcomes
me--send assistance to me!




CHAPTER V.

_Preparations for celebrating the Assembly of the Minstrels at Kray
Castle._


The day was now come, when the assembly of the minstrels was to be
celebrated at Kray Castle. Every body was alert: the great hall showed
like an arsenal, hung round with trophies of armour, and decorated with
the banners of the family, upon which the emblem of the winged harp held
its station paramount.

The natives, whether inhabitants of mountain or of vale, flocked from
all parts to the spectacle. No minstrel, who had any ambition to
distinguish himself, neglected the invitation. The domestics of the
castle were arrayed in their gala liveries of orange-tawney, new for the
occasion. All hands were busy in the kitchen, which was of conventual
size, and the savory steam ascended to the vaulted roof in clouds of
stomach-stirring odour. The cellar, though provided with a double tier
of potent ordnance, was formidably menaced by the numbers of the
assailants. Cecilia, the moving spring of all operations, had taken her
measures so providently, and given out her orders with such precision,
that all things went on in their respective departments with consummate
regularity.

Mrs. De Lancaster, still languid, though in spirits less depressed, was
incapable of taking any share in the festivities of the day, and
confined herself to her apartment. The worthy old colonel had put
himself in full uniform for the occasion, and Captain Henry Wilson,
brilliant as if accoutred for a review, appeared as if he had been
mailed in glittering sheets of silver. A ditto suit of melancholy
bottle-green sufficed for Philip’s unambitious taste.

These with the venerable senior of the family had assembled in the great
saloon, when the Reverend Edward Wilson, leading our young hero by the
hand, presented him to his grandfather with the following address--I
have the honour, sir, to introduce my pupil to you, and am most happy in
assuring you, that I have already witnessed such encouraging instances
both of his application and of his talents, as far exceed the promise of
my most sanguine hopes. If my instructions can keep pace with the
rapidity of his comprehension, it will not be very long before he will
have exhausted all I shall wish to teach him as a reader of the
classics. His own naturally strong understanding, and the inborn virtues
of his heart, will leave me little else to do, save only to repress a
certain ebullition of courageous spirit, which, though it be a quality,
that ought to be found in every gentleman’s character, should not be
called forth upon every frivolous occasion.

The old man sighed, cast a tender look upon his grandson, kissed him on
each cheek, and turning aside to the preceptor, said in a whisper, I
will talk to him on this subject.

A dealer in minute descriptions would here find some employment about
the dress and person of our hero, as well as of his aunt Cecilia,
hitherto unnoticed; but as elegance and perfect neatness were all that
she aimed at, and her nephew imitated, simplicity, as I understand it,
is not liable to description, and it would be loss of labour to attempt
it.

The equipage of Sir Owen ap Owen was now discovered in approach. There
had been a sensible falling off in the accustomed intercourse between
the houses of De Lancaster and Owen since the accession of the Spanish
widow and her son to the family of the baronet. Some little sparring
upon points of county politics had occurred to threaten rather than to
effect an actual breach between them. This visit therefore was regarded
by the worthy host of the castle as a conciliatory advance on the part
of his old friend and neighbour, whom of course he welcomed with all
possible cordiality.

Sir Owen’s constitution was completely broken down; he walked with
difficulty through the hall, leaning on De Lancaster’s arm, who saw with
concern the change, that had been wrought in his once sturdy frame.
Philip not being disposed to quit his corner, Captain Henry Wilson
ushered in Mrs. David Owen, who having made her Spanish salutations to
the company, took her seat upon the sopha, and gave the captain to
understand that there was room for him to sit beside her. She made an
excuse for her son, that he was out with the hounds, and had not
returned, but would pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster in the
course of the afternoon: she turned a look upon her bottle-green lover,
which was not very expressive of complacency, and immediately played off
her best graces on the captain: she took notice of his uniform, and
complimented him by observing it was quite as brilliant as that of the
Spanish guards--If we, who wear it, are quite as brave, the captain
courteously replied, our finery will be well bestowed. She addressed
herself to Cecilia, and observed that Master John, as she called him,
was very much grown. He had taken his seat beside his godfather Sir
Owen, who, when he had recovered his breath, said to De Lancaster--We
are come, my good sir, to pay our compliments to you on this occasion,
and have brought Ap-Rees with us to give you a specimen of his art,
which you will understand, but I do not. Rachel, as you see, has set
herself out in all her finery to do grace to your festival, but you must
take a plain man in a plain coat, for I am too ill to thrust my crazy
carcase into a fresh doublet, and shall hardly shift my rigging till I
change it for a suit of sheep’s wool only.

De Lancaster shook his head, turned an eye of pity on his friend, but
made no answer.

Sir Owen had now taken his godson by the hand, and was asking him why he
did not go out with the hounds--I wait, John replied, till I can see
you in the field, mounted on your favourite horse Glendowr; then I shall
turn out with pleasure--Ah! my dear boy, cried Sir Owen, never, never
again in this life shall I find myself upon the back of Glendowr. I can
only look at him through the window, when he is led out to amuse me. He
is the best horse and the best hunter in England: Lamprey was his sire,
and Lamprey belonged to Sir William Morgan of Tredegar. I am torn to
pieces for Glendowr, but a sack of money would not buy him: nephew David
spells hard to borrow him, but I won’t lend him to David of all men
living, for he is cruel to his horses, and abuses the fine creature,
that carries him; but I will lend him to you, John, freely and
willingly, for you are merciful, and will use him well; nay, I could
find it in my heart to give him to you out and out.

Upon no account, John exclaimed, would I take him, whilst it can afford
you, my dear sir, a moment’s pleasure to look at him.

Well, well! that’s handsome, he replied. Wait the going of a few short
weeks, and you’ll find him in my will.

There is something more than meets the eye in this circumstance of the
horse, or we should not have inserted it.

The guests in the mean time were coming in, and at an early hour the
castle-bell rang out for dinner. At this instant the heir of the Owens
made his appearance in his hunting uniform, and booted. He apologised
for this by saying he had not quitted the saddle, that he might be in
time to pay his compliments to Mr. De Lancaster within the hour, that
was specified on his card. All this was very well, and Mr. David Owen
was most courteously welcomed by Mr. De Lancaster and the inmates of his
family. John made his bow, and Mr. Owen fell in with the company, who
were now summoned to the dinner room, and took his seat at table.

Hospitality without parade, and festivity without excess was the
character of an entertainment projected and conducted by the presiding
genius of Cecilia De Lancaster.

Mr. David Owen assumed a certain consequential style and carriage, which
strongly indicated, that he knew himself as the heir of his uncle’s
title and estate, and that he saw the hour at hand, which was to put him
in possession of both. A set of vulgar companions, who frequented his
uncle’s table, had blown him up with flattery, whilst they were sapping
the constitution of poor Sir Owen with their sottish debaucheries,
which, if Mrs. David Owen took no ostensible measures to encourage, she
certainly used no efforts to prevent: of her maternal authority she made
no use, nor indeed could any be made, for it was completely dispensed
with. Nature in the meanwhile had not done much for the young gentleman,
and education very little; yet he was not without talents of a certain
sort, and whenever opportunity offered for employing them, diffidence
never stood in his way. He had the cunning of a Jew, and the haughtiness
of a Spaniard: ridicule was his passion, and mimicry, particularly of
his uncle, what he most excelled in. He had black piercing eyes, an
aquiline nose and Moorish complexion, a high shrill voice, and when he
wrinkled up his features into a smile, it was the grin of malice and
derision.




CHAPTER VI.

_Occurrences at Kray Castle during the Assembly of the Minstrels._


When the repast was over, and the glass had cheerfully, yet temperately,
circulated, the doors of the great hall were thrown open: a scaffolding
containing seats for the company, and a stage for the performers had
been prepared, and the audience was full. Old De Lancaster, encircled by
his guests, made the central figure of the assembly, and his entrance
was hailed by a chorus of harps, joining in the popular air--_Of a
noble race was Shenkin_.

When this was past, the names of six selected minstrels were announced.
Each of these was of high celebrity in his art, and the respectability
of the audience called on them for their best exertions. When four of
this number had now acquitted themselves with great credit, and the
plaudits of the hearers seemed to have been pretty equally bestowed
amongst them, there remained only Robin Ap-Rees, the famous harper of
Penruth Abbey, and David Williams of Kray Castle as yet unheard. In
these celebrated performers there existed a high spirit of emulation,
and the opinions of the country were divided between them: Though rivals
in art, they were brothers in misfortune, for both were bereft of
sight--_Blind Thamyris and blind Mœonides_.

After a pause of some minutes, Ap-Rees presented himself to the
spectators, led, like Tiresias, by his young and blooming daughter, and
followed by his son, carrying his harp. The interesting group so touched
all hearts, and set all hands in motion, that the hall rung with their
plaudits. He was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, bald head,
pale visage, of a pensive cast, and habited in a long black mantle of
thin stuff bound about with a rose-coloured sash of silk, richly fringed
with silver, and on his breast, appending to a ribbon of pale blue, hung
a splendid medal of honour.

Before he took the seat, that was provided for him, he stopped and made
a profound obeisance to the company: his daughter in the meantime,
modest, timid and unprepared for such a scene, not venturing to
encounter the eyes of the spectators, when she had placed her father in
his seat, no longer able to struggle with her sensibility, sunk into his
arms, trembling and on the point to faint: her brother stood aghast and
helpless: the ladies manifested their alarm by screams, and the men were
rising from their seats, when our hero, whose only monitor was his
heart, leapt on the stage and sprung to her relief: she revived, and he
gallantly conducted her to a seat, where she was no longer exposed to
the observation of the company who cheered him with a loud applause.

Silence being restored, Ap-Rees began to tune his harp. He paused, as if
waiting for the inspiration of his muse; his bosom yet laboured with the
recent agitation of his spirits, when at length he threw his hand over
the strings, and began the symphony. His song was the tale of ancient
days: he took for his theme the religious legend of the famous knight
Sir Owen, one of the ancestors of his present patron. The legend is
detailed at length by Matthew Paris in his history, page 86, edited by
Doctor Watts in the year 1640, and few can be found better calculated to
call forth all the powers of poetry and music: The date is that of the
reign of King Stephen, and in the wars of that period Sir Owen had very
valorously distinguished himself. When Ap-Rees described his hero
entering the tremendous cave amidst the wailings of the tormented, and
beset by the infernal spirits, who assailed his constancy by every
horrible device their malice could suggest, so striking were the
effects, so contrasted the transitions of his harmony, that he seemed
almost to realize those fearful yellings, groanings and thunderings
recorded in the story. When he advanced to that period, where the
fortitude of the knight baffles all the efforts of the dæmons, the
movement, which had before been turbulent, irregular and excursive,
became solemn, flowing and majestic; but when in conclusion Sir Owen,
triumphant over his assailants, puts them to general rout, and the
gloomy cave in an instant is converted into a bright and blooming
paradise, the minstrel with such art adapted his melody to the scene
described, and so tranquillizing was the sweetness of his strain, that
at the close he left his hearers still impressed with those delightful
sensations, which Milton describes Adam to have felt, whilst the voice
of the communicative angel was yet dwelling on his ear.

At length De Lancaster rose up, and addressing himself to the minstrel,
testified his high admiration of the excellent performance he had
witnessed, observing that it had been particularly gratifying to him to
listen to a poem, founded on the magnanimous behaviour of a truly
Christian knight, who was enrolled amongst the many heroes, which the
ancient and illustrious house of his friend and countryman Sir Owen ap
Owen might justly boast of.

This speech was followed by a thundering applause, the exulting minstrel
made his valedictory obeisance, and withdrew.

Sir Owen in the meantime whispered his friend De Lancaster, that he had
never read the story, but he was told it was put down in a book and of
course he conceived it must be all true.

David Williams now remained to ascend the stage and close the
entertainment. He was ushered in, habited in a loose vest or mantle of
white cloth with open sleeves, which he had tucked up, leaving his arms
bare: it was bound about his waist with a broad belt of orange-tawney
silk, and upon his breast he wore a medal, on which the device of the
winged harp was conspicuously displayed: a fillet of the same colour
with his belt confined his white locks, and when he had arranged himself
in his seat and begun to touch his harp, all was silence and attentive
expectation.

At length, rolling his sightless eyeballs in a kind of poetic phrensy,
he began his song from Noah: he sung the destructive visitation of the
general deluge: he chanted the praises of King Samothes, and the
splendor of his court; he then took a martial strain, and, smiting his
harp with all the fire of an enthusiast, sung the triumphs of the giant
son of Neptune, who entailed the trident of his father on his new-named
Albion to all posterity. The animating subject seized the passions of
the hearers, and the applause was loud and clamourous.

When this subsided, the minstrel chose a melancholy theme; his head
drooped upon his harp, and his fingers moved languidly over the strings,
whilst in a slow and mournful strain he chanted the sad fate of Bladud--

    “Fallen from his towring flight,
    “And weltring in his blood.--”

During the movement all were silent, when at once the harp was heard to
break forth into a melody of the most gay and joyous character, inviting
all present to festivity and good fellowship, and invoking blessings on
the hospitable and time-honoured house of De Lancaster.

The harp now ceased, and the several minstrels, as well those, who had
attended and were unheard, as those, who had performed, being assembled
on the platform, the venerable patron and projector of the entertainment
stood up in his place, and addressed himself to speak as follows--

Gentlemen, who have so highly gratified us with your excellent
performances, and you also, who, if time had permitted, would have
increased that gratification; masters and professors of that science,
which is at once so dignified and so delightful, I offer you on the
part of all here present the tribute of our unanimous acknowledgments,
and our unqualified approbation and applause. We beg you will be pleased
to share our praises amongst you; we do not presume to apportion them
according to your respective merits. And now friends, neighbours and
countrymen, who have done me the honour to accept any invitation to this
our domestic eistedfodd, you have heard the lay of our minstrel David
Williams, and although, for brevity’s sake, he took it up from the
deluge only, yet, if you do not already know, you ought now to be
informed, that this unconquered soil whereon we dwell, was in times
antecedent to that visitation as fully peopled, and arts and sciences
were as happily cultivated here as within any spot upon the habitable
globe. If therefore in the recitation of the lay, which I allude to,
mention of that early time was omitted to be made, it was not because
records are wanting of sufficient authenticity to illuminate the
subject, forasmuch as not a few of those, who lived before the flood,
have spoken for themselves, and their words and works have descended to
us through the lapse of ages. Witness those treatises upon natural
magic, which Ham the son of Noah, when in the ark with his father,
possessed himself of, and having bequeathed them to his son Misraim,
were afterwards made public to the great edification of the repeopled
world. Nay, gentlemen, let me assure you, there are those, who trace the
origin of the Chrysopeia, or art of making gold, even up to Adam
himself, who in a tract of his own composing (after the fall we will
suppose) expounds that curious process.

I lay this before you, friends and countrymen, knowing that there are
few amongst you, who do not trace your pedigrees up to the ante-diluvian
ages, and I rest what I have said upon sound authorities that you, being
true and ancient Britons, may have wherewithal to defend your
derivations from your father Adam, if any there may be, obstinate and
absurd enough to dispute them.

I shall now trespass on your time no longer, than whilst I express my
hope that you, my gallant countrymen, who have held the tenure of this
soil from ages so remote, will persevere to defend it through ages yet
to come from all invaders foreign and domestic.




CHAPTER VII.

_Harmony of Sounds does not always ensure Harmony of Souls._


Whilst these performances were going on, Mr. David Owen, sullen and
unsocial, had planted himself on a bench as far apart from the principal
gentry as he could, and obstinately resisted all solicitations to take a
seat more suitable to his rank, and more respectful to the company there
assembled. Mr. De Lancaster however, as a mark of his attention, had
desired his son Philip to place himself by his side, and take care that
nothing was omitted, that could add to his entertainment or
accommodation. Nothing could be more acceptable to Philip than a
commission of this sort, which consigned him to a post, where he might
sit unseeing and unseen, and happily enjoy a complete vacation from
thought, whilst his sulky neighbour, wearied with his morning’s chace,
and little interested by what was going forward, fell asleep.

The bustle however, which Nancy Ap Rees had occasioned when she led her
father on the stage, caused the drowsy gentleman to open his eyes just
as our John De Lancaster was sallying to her assistance--That youngster
of yours, said David, methinks is very officious. I am weary of this
mummery. Can’t we slip aside, and repose ourselves in a quiet room till
this tiresome business is all over? I believe you find as little
amusement in it as I do.

I find none at all, Philip replied, and rising up, cried, now is the
moment, follow me.

When the assembly had broken up, and the gentry were filing off to the
collation, that was set out for them in the great parlour, Mr. David
Owen and his umbra in the bottle green were missing. It was suspected
they had retired to Philip’s private room, and our hero John was
dispatched to find them. This discovery was soon made, and his message
as soon delivered. Philip set out upon the summons, when young Owen,
instead of following him out of the room, which he seemed prepared to
do, shut the door, and turning to John, who was civilly attending upon
him, said to him in his ironical and sneering way--Upon my word, young
gentleman, you have made a very capital display of your agility before
the company in jumping on the stage, and shewing off your gallantry
towards a young wench, who is in the high situation of daughter to our
old blind harper, and a domestic in our family.

Sir, replied the youth, I considered her situation in no other light
than as she seemed to want assistance, and in tendering that, I trust I
have not offended Mr. David Owen.

Oh, by no means, replied the other in the same taunting tone; you
afforded me an opportunity of admiring you in the amiable attitude of
succouring a distressed and fainting damsel--besides, give me leave to
observe, that such a heavy load of music without a little dancing
between whiles would have been absolutely insupportable, and I felt
myself unspeakably obliged to you for the relief, which your elegant
performance so seasonably afforded; and if my respect for the ladies
present had not bound me to silence, I should have requested you to
have repeated that delightful rigadoon with Miss Nancy Ap Rees for my
particular entertainment.

There are no ladies here present, cried the gallant youth, stepping up
to him; so, if you are in the same humour still, your respect need not
stop you: but let me remind you, Mr. Owen, that it is no mark of courage
to insult me under the sanction of a roof, where the laws of hospitality
forbid me to resent it. Take your opportunity of playing off your
spiteful jests upon me in any other place, and you shall find me, though
your inferior in the art of ridicule, at least your equal in the spirit
of a gentleman. I know you can throw dirt and bespatter very
ingeniously, and enjoy the mischief as a joke, without remorse for the
pain and injury it inflicts.

At this moment Edward Wilson entered the room, and from the last words,
which he had heard, and the angry countenance of his pupil, guessing
what had passed--John De Lancaster, he cried, recollect yourself!

Aye, sir, resumed the demy-Spaniard, now more pale and sallow with his
rage, teach your schoolboy better manners, and warn him how he carries
himself so unbecomingly towards one, who is every way his superior.

Tell me first, said Wilson, in what my pupil has offended you; and as
you are his superior in age, avail yourself of that advantage by stating
your dispute calmly and dispassionately, and let me fairly judge between
you.

No, sir, replied the haughty youth, I shall state nothing, nor let any
man be judge over me; least of all a gentleman in your predicament, Mr.
Wilson, whose judgment I can pretty well guess at. Let your angry boy
make up his story as he likes, and you may believe it, or not, as you
like. I care not. Into this house I will never enter more with my good
will.

In that respect, said Wilson, you must do as you see fit; but command
yourself at present, and that you may not disturb the harmony of the
night, let me recommend it to you to join the company.

And if I do, sir, resumed the insolent, give me leave to tell you that
wherever and whenever I sit down at table with any one, that bears the
name of De Lancaster, I shall consider myself as in company with my
inferior.

Hold! You forget yourself, cried the reverend Mr. Wilson; you are much
too lofty; and if you do not speedily correct that pride yourself,
somebody will be found to do it for you.

Go, go! said Owen, don’t tutor me, tutor your schoolboy, and let him
think himself well off, that he has escaped chastisement.

Chastisement! exclaimed John, and put himself before the door; you dare
as well eat fire, as repeat that to me in another place.

As John was saying this, David Owen, who was making for the door, put
him aside, rather roughly, with his hand, and walked out of the room in
that kind of strutting style, which a braggart finds it convenient to
assume on his departure, when he feels the time is come, that
counterfeited courage will no longer serve his purpose.

Was not that a blow, cried John, eagerly arresting Wilson, as he was
about to follow? Has not that Jew-born miscreant given me a blow?

What ails you? Are you mad? It was no blow.

It makes my flesh burn where his hand was on me. Indeed, indeed! I feel
it as a blow. I’m sure he struck me. Why should you deny it? I thought
you had been my friend.

I am your friend, said Wilson, looking him stedfastly in the face, and
if you do not consider me as such because I did not suffer you to
disgrace the hospitality of your grandfather by a fray with one of his
guests, you do not judge of me with truth and candour, but in the heat
of passion and resentment.

Disarmed, and brought to instant recollection by this temperate
remonstrance, the brave youth cried out--I’m wrong, I’m wrong! I pray
you to forgive me. You are my friend, and I depend upon you: but call it
what you will--a push, a touch--the spite and malice of the action gives
it the cast and character of a blow; and to put up with a blow from
David Owen, what could there be in life so disgraceful, what in death so
dreadful as that?

John, John, said Wilson gravely and authoritatively, I must remind you
in what charge I stand towards you, and by what duty you are bound to
me: I tell you once again, it was no blow. You put yourself between him
and the door; he could not pass you otherwise than he did. Come, come,
you must reform this angry spirit; it savours of revenge; and to carry
such an inmate in your bosom, would be neither for your reputation, nor
repose. There is however one species of revenge, in which I will assist
you, I mean the revenge of virtue, the triumph of a good and noble
character over an ignoble and an evil one: that victory if you can
obtain (and it shall be my study to point out the road to it) you will
then establish a fair title to that superiority over David Owen, which
he now vainly arrogates over you. Come then, my dear John, let us
henceforward set about that honourable task in earnest, and in the mean
time treat his insolence only with contempt.




CHAPTER VIII.

_Our Hero goes to Glen-Morgan, and pays a Visit to Mrs. Jennings at
Denbigh._


Lawyer Davis (universally so called) was an active honourable little
fellow in great request, and would ride further for a few shillings in
the prosecution of his business, than some physicians will for as many
pounds. He was a light weight, was always well-mounted, and travelled by
the compass with extraordinary expedition. In the early morning of the
day, immediately following the festival at Kray Castle, he called upon
our hero John with an invitation from his grandfather at Glen-Morgan to
come over to him upon particular business, and Davis did not disguise
from him that it was for the purpose of communicating to him the
disposal of his effects by will.

To a summons so important there was neither prohibition nor delay. John
however in a short interview with his mother suggested to her the
opportunity, that now offered for presenting to Amelia the miniature of
her father, with which he was entrusted. Mrs. De Lancaster had no
objection to his making an excursion to Denbigh, and allowed him to use
her name for his introduction to Miss Jones, but the proposal of writing
to Mrs. Jennings had been laid aside. Lawyer Davis was to go with him,
and John under such a swift-sailing convoy soon found himself safe
moored by the side of his grandfather.

John, said the good old man, I have been putting down a few items in
the only work of mine, that will ever descend to posterity, and as you
have a concern in the purport of it, I think it is but right you should
know what it is. In this paper, which is my last will and testament, and
which friend Davis has translated out of English into law, I have
bequeathed my estates real and personal to your mother independantly of
her husband for her life, and after her decease to you and your heirs,
executors and assigns, for ever. So God bless you with it! I for one
shan’t hold it from you long. However take notice, I have not forgotten
certain friends and dependants, who will have claims upon you; and as I
have not been notoriously uncharitable in my life, I have not quite
overlooked that duty at my death. I shall not turn out rich in money,
for the labouring poor have been so confoundedly pinched, that they
would not let me gratify the rascally passion, which I naturally had to
be a miser. There is Dame Jennings will come upon you for an annuity,
and that little witch Amelia Jones is down in black and white for
another. I could not help it. They were both too good, and one of them
too pretty, too innocent, and too helpless to be left to the wide world;
I could not go out of it in peace, and leave them to starve in poverty:
you must think, John, that would not do; would it? No, no; I was forced
to take care of them for the sake of an easy conscience, or in other
words (do you see) for my own sake; else I should not have done it for
the mere pleasure of giving away; for I have no pleasure in it. As a
proof of that, look you, here is a hundred guineas in a canvas purse; I
took from the greasy pocket of a drover for twenty head of scabby
cattle, that were neither use nor ornament to me. I cheated the poor
fellow, or rather I should say, let him cheat himself; for I took what
he offered. Now here’s a case in point, if you don’t take and rid me of
it, it will lie upon my conscience, and what with that and the gout
together, I shall get no sleep.

You know, my dear generous grandfather, said John, I don’t want money.

Perhaps not; but I want sleep, replied the grandfather; therefore take
it, if you love me, and dispose of it as you like. John made no further
opposition, but received the present.

It so chanced that in the evening a certain Jew, Israel Lyons by name,
who was in the practice of travelling about the country at stated
periods with his portable stock in trade, came to the house. He had the
character of a fair-dealing man, and was well known to the principal
families in those parts. Israel either bought or sold, and was a trader
in all respects conformable to the occasions of those, to whom he
resorted. Old Morgan having retired to his chamber, John, according to
custom, had stepped aside to pay a kind visit to Mrs. Richards and the
old butler, whilst Israel was descanting upon the excellence of a pair
of spectacles, which the good lady was cheapening; these were soon
purchased and paid for without any cheapening at all, and in the mean
time our hero’s eyes were caught by the attraction of a rich and elegant
gold chain of curious workmanship, which Israel displayed with address
and eloquence, at least proportioned to its merit. It instantly
occurred to John that this brilliant chain would admirably become the
beautiful neck of Amelia, and be a fit and apposite appendage to the
miniature picture of her father, which he was about to present to her. A
speedy transfer of the aforesaid chain was accordingly made by Mr.
Israel Lyons, who had no kind of difficulty in parting from it for value
received in ready cash upon terms of his own proposing; and thus it came
to pass, that the present, which John hesitated to receive, was, as it
now turned out, most opportunely bestowed.

The next morning brought our young De Lancaster to the door of Mrs.
Jennings; he was admitted to that lady, but Amelia was not present. When
he had communicated the object of his visit, and signified that he
waited on Miss Jones with the entire approbation, and in fact by the
immediate desire of his mother, Mrs. Jennings paused, and after a few
moments recollection, said--I should very much wish, Mr. De Lancaster,
that Amelia Jones, agitated as I am sure she will be upon the sight of
this most interesting present, might with your permission be allowed to
receive it in the first instance through my hands; that so she may have
time to recollect herself, before she undertakes to pay her
acknowledgments to Mrs. De Lancaster through you, and to you in person;
and I hope, sir, you will believe that I can have no other inducement
for proposing this to you, except that of my consideration for the
feelings of the young and sensitive creature, who is under my immediate
charge.

To this appeal our hero instantly, replied--As I promised my mother
that I would deliver this token of her affection into Miss Jones’s
hands, I confess I wished to have fulfilled my promise; but your
authority supersedes those wishes on my part, and with all possible
respect for your superior judgment, I beg you will transmit this pacquet
to Miss Jones in the way you think best: I am only the bearer of it, and
shall intrude no further--Having risen from his seat whilst he was
uttering these words, he had no sooner made an end of speaking, than he
bolted out of the room with a rapidity, that precluded all reply--Never
will I enter those doors again, he exclaimed as he stepped into the
street, whilst that dragon is within them.--

We make no comment on this hasty proceeding of our disappointed hero:
some of our readers perhaps will find a plea for it; we offer none. The
good lady whose caution had given cause for it, (if any cause there
was) had by the sudden departure of her visitor been precluded from
making any of those efforts for detaining him, which politeness might
else have dictated. He had passed her windows before she had
sufficiently recovered her surprise to attempt at explanation, and she
had now to reflect how far it was, or was not, incumbent upon her to
relate the incident with all its circumstances to Amelia. In her sense
of the responsible situation, in which she stood towards the families of
De Lancaster and Morgan, she conceived it highly behoved her to be
extremely careful how she gave them any grounds to accuse her of
favouring interviews, that in course of time might lead to an
attachment, which she had reason to apprehend might involve her in much
trouble, if considered by those families as originating in her house.

When she had weighed these circumstances in her mind, she found so many
reasons, that justified her reserve towards young De Lancaster, that she
no longer regretted the interruption she had given to a second
interview, which would probably have excited some sensations, and drawn
out some expressions on the part of Amelia, which she by no means was
disposed to encourage. She now took up the pacquet, and entering the
room, where Amelia, unconscious of what had been passing, was employed
upon her studies--My dear child, she said, I have a present for you from
Mrs. Philip De Lancaster, which I am sure you will very highly value,
being a miniature portrait of your father, which that lady has long had
in her possession, and now kindly bestows it upon you--Bless me,
exclaimed Amelia, how very kind that is in Mrs. De Lancaster! What a
good and generous lady she must be. In the meantime she eagerly
proceeded to open the pacquet, which inclosed two shagreen cases, and
instantly taking that, which evidently contained the miniature of her
father, rapturously exclaimed--Oh, what an exquisite, what an admirable
resemblance; how lovely, how divine is the expression of this
countenance! I can look on this with more delight than I can on the
portrait below stairs; for here I behold him happy and in health; there
he appears so melancholy and dejected, that I can hardly ever look upon
it without tears--But what in the name of wonder is this, said she,
opening the case, in which the gold chain was contained? Bless me! can
this fine thing be intended for me? Did Mrs. De Lancaster give me this
also?

I suppose so, said Mrs. Jennings: at least I know nothing to the
contrary.

But who brought it? demanded Amelia; and thus interrogated, Mrs.
Jennings was constrained to answer, that it was brought and delivered to
her by young De Lancaster himself.

Oh then I am sure this chain at least is his present, said the
enraptured girl, (her face flushing, and her eyes glistening with joy)
why didn’t you call me down instantly to pay my thanks to him? Come,
madam! why do we keep him waiting?

Hold, my dear. The gentleman is not waiting: he is gone.

Gone! exclaimed Amelia! you astonish me; you alarm me. Is it possible
Mr. De Lancaster could bring me these fine presents, these inestimable
presents, and go away without seeing me? Ah dear madam, tell me at once
without disguise where is he gone; why is he gone?

Have patience, my dear child, and you shall hear--It was by no means my
wish that he should go without your seeing him, and paying him your
acknowledgments so justly due; but as I did not know to what degree you
might be affected by the sight of your father’s picture, I thought it on
all accounts adviseable to desire Mr. De Lancaster would allow me to be
the bearer of the pacquet to you; for which I assured him I had no other
motive but consideration and regard for your repose; upon which he gave
me the pacquet, expressed himself disappointed, and before I could
answer, left the house.

In anger--

I suspect it.

Ah madam, madam, where then is my repose, which you so cautiously
consulted? Gone for ever. I might have been the happiest of human
beings, I am now the most miserable. Much as I adore the memory of my
father, infinitely as I prize this relique, which presents me with his
image, and dear to me as this token of Mr. De Lancaster’s favour would
have been, yet as he wished to give it to me, and that small, that
trifling gratification was denied to him, never will I wear it, touch
it, look upon it more, till I receive it from his hands, and am assured
of his forgiveness.

Having said this, she burst into tears, and what Mrs. Jennings suggested
for her consolation would not be very interesting to relate.




CHAPTER IX.

_A Hasty Retreat. Meditations by the Way._


When a hasty youth is mounted on a hasty horse, who can foresee where
the spur of passion will transport him? The patience of an ass, or the
obstinacy of a mule might either weary out his anger, or so divert it,
as to give him some chance for recollection; but John and his steed were
in the same humour for a start at score, and it seemed equally
indifferent to both which way they bent their course, so they did but
agree to outrun discretion. They soon left Denbigh behind them, and as
Glen Morgan did not just then occur to the rider, and old Ben could not
come up within earshot to remind him of it, where they might have gone
is mere matter of conjecture, but certainly not to Kray Castle, had not
that inextinguishable spark of humanity, which John cherished in his
bosom, given him a memento, that a generous animal ought not to suffer
merely because a hot-headed rider had got astride upon his back.

The impulse of pity, that now struck upon the heart of John, was
instantaneous. He stopped his horse, dismounted, relieved him by
slackening the stricture of his girths, turned his nostrils to the wind,
wiped the sweat from his face and ears, caressed him and in his heart
asked pardon for the unreasonable fatigue he had exposed him to. Whilst
this was passing Ben came panting up: what he had in mind to say is lost
to the world, forasmuch as being rather pursey, Ben had not breath to
utter it; besides which, the offender having now recollected himself,
had prevented his curiosity at the same time that he softened his
remonstrance, by apologising for his excursion, confessing that he had
forgotten himself, and did not know why he came there, nor where he was.

’Tis very well then that I can tell you whereabouts you are, Ben
replied.

Well! and where am I? John demanded.

Out of your road, said Ben, quite and clean; that’s where you are, and
so I would have told you in good time, hadn’t you gallopped on at such a
pelting rate, that I couldn’t get up to you: And now may I ask without
offence where it is your pleasure to go next?

Home, to the Castle--was the answer.

Then we must not travel quite so fast if you please, said Ben; for the
road is somewhat difficult to hit off, and not over smooth besides.

Lead the way! John replied: go your own pace, and I’ll follow--This
point being adjusted, conversation ceased, and our young hero began to
meditate as follows--

That I have cause to feel and resent the treatment I have received is an
opinion that I still persist in, but I am conscious of the folly I have
been guilty of in suffering myself to be hurried into such ridiculous
excesses, as I have now been giving way to. Of this I am most heartily
ashamed; but after being denied access to Amelia, when coming by my
mother’s authority, and bringing her present in my hand as my
introduction, I hold myself justified in resolving never more to enter
Mrs. Jennings’s doors, nor subject myself to be considered by that
precise repulsive lady as an unwelcome and obnoxious visitor. If there
was no collusion between the governess and her charge, (and I confess
there does not appear to have been any such) I certainly have no reason
to be offended with Amelia, who perhaps may have felt some portion of
that disappointment, which fell so heavily upon me. All that I have
promised and solemnly pledged myself to do in her behalf, I will
faithfully fulfil; but I will not allow Mrs. Jennings to misinterpret my
attentions and suspect that I am governed by any motives with regard to
the lovely and engaging orphan under her care, which are not simply
directed to her service, and strictly consistent with the purest honour:
She shall not therefore be alarmed in future by any assiduities on my
part, which it shall be possible for her to misconstrue and suspect.
Heaven knows I have need enough of instruction, and to my studies under
the direction of my excellent preceptor I will henceforward so totally
devote myself, that if there was any early preference forming at my
heart, which time and opportunity might have ripened into positive
attachment, it is now the moment for me to suppress it, and by
application to acquirements, in which I am so glaringly deficient, give
them all my thoughts, and let no wandering wishes turn them from the
tract, they ought to follow and persist in.

Whilst our young heart-wounded hero was arguing himself into this wise
resolution, and proposing to derive profit from disappointment, he came
within sight of a cottage, whose lonely and desolate situation seemed
ill accordant with the neatness and studied comfort of every thing
about it. Two women were sitting at their needle-work in the little
garden in the front of it, and he was already near enough to distinguish
the features of the youngest before she had started from her seat, and
ran into the house. He was so struck with the resemblance, that she bore
to the daughter of Sir Owen’s minstrel, blind Ap-Rees, of whom we have
made former mention, that he stopped, and put that question to the
elderly dame, who kept her seat: the dame at first did not think fit to
answer, but upon the question being respectfully urged a second
time--Whether that young person was, or was not, Nancy Ap-Rees, she
briefly replied--That young person is my daughter, and my name is not
Ap-Rees.

Then I am mistaken, said John, and rode on.

Satisfied with this answer, which at the present time made but a slight
impression on his thoughts, he proceeded homewards, following his guide
step by step through all the sinuosities of a craggy road, ruminating
upon what had passed at Denbigh, at some times accusing, and at others
acquitting himself for his conduct upon that occasion. He formed a wild
and fanciful conception of those brilliant lights, that science would in
time unfold; but whilst he was enjoying this platonic vision, the
sylph-like image of Amelia would recur to his imagination in the
captivating attitude of standing at his elbow, as once she had been
seen, when, taken by surprise, he caught her in his arms, and
rapturously pressed her to his heart. Thus advancing onwards, though
not conscious of progression, he was at length recalled to recollection
by the sight of Kray Castle, and his reverie dispersed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The awful character of the time, in which we now live, calls upon every
writer to be cautious how he appeals to the passions of mankind. The
novelist, who is professedly a writer of this description, has no
arbitrary power, independant of morality, over the characters he
exhibits merely because they are fictions of his own inventing: he has
duties, which he is bound to observe, and cannot violate without
offence.

Under this impression, I endeavour to conduct my fable, studious to make
that amiable, which I strive to make attractive; and although, in
obedience to nature, I must mingle shade with light, I flatter myself
that vice of my devising will have no allurements to attach the unwary,
nor virtue be pourtrayed with those romantic attributes, which, bearing
no similitude to real life, leave no impression on the reader’s mind,
nor can be turned to any moral use.

                        END OF THE FIRST BOOK.




                           BOOK THE SECOND.




CHAPTER I.

_Sir Owen ap Owen on his Death-Bed takes leave of Mr. De Lancaster._


There was an apartment in one of the turrets of Kray Castle, which
commanded a fine view of the park and country, bounded by the sea: here
it was that young De Lancaster commenced a course of application to his
studies under the instruction of his excellent preceptor, to which he
devoted himself with so determined a passion for improvement, that it
was not long before he had made a progress in the learned languages,
that would have qualified him to pass muster with most young scholars of
his standing.

Nature had endowed him with a strong and retentive memory, and parts
rather solid than brilliant: he had great industry, a ready apprehension
and a mind turned to enquiry. Few temptations were now sufficiently
alluring to detach him from his books; so grateful to him were the
lectures of his instructor, and so delectable the acquisition of
knowledge, that he sought no pleasures, and seemed to regret all
avocations. His volatility of spirit had now in a great degree subsided;
he became cautious in the company of his seniors, and more disposed to
listen than to talk. The neighbours did not think him mended by his
studies, and the servants, who had been the companions of his puerile
sports, pronounced that he was spoilt.

An unatoned insult still rankled at his heart, and he shunned the sight
of David Owen, not because he feared him, but because he doubted his
own self-command upon the meeting. That arrogant young man had now taken
a decided character; was a loud talker and a bold assertor, and, being
under no restraint, gave himself all the latitude, which the actual
possession of what he was only presumptive heir to, could have
emboldened him to assume.

As for Sir Owen, he was now in the last stage of a decline, never
stirred from his chamber, and was considered by all about him as a man,
who had not many days to live. In this extremity he dispatched a
messenger to Kray Castle to request an interview with his old friend De
Lancaster, who immediately put himself in order to obey the summons. As
soon as his arrival was announced, Sir Owen dismissed his attendants,
and received his worthy visitor alone in his chamber. After the
customary enquiries had passed, the baronet delivered himself as
follows--

I have asked this favour of you, my good friend and neighbour, because I
perceive myself going out of the world, and, having great esteem and
respect for you, I would willingly bid you farewell before I am gone. I
have thought very little about death till it has come upon me as it were
at once; all I know of the matter is that we must all die, and so, you
see, I must take my turn, as others have done before, and every one must
do after me. If it had been my good fortune to have made myself
acceptable to your amiable daughter, I might have lived to enjoy, as you
do now, a healthy old age; but when a man has neither wife nor family
nor friend at hand to jog his memory upon occasion, he will be apt to
forget himself at times, and by going too fast come the sooner to his
journey’s end. That has been my case, friend De Lancaster, and how could
it be otherwise. I have none of those resources that you have; if my
house was full of books, they would be of no use to me; I should not
read one of them; I never had a turn that way. Time was I took delight
in hunting my own hounds; that, you know, is a rational and
gentlemanlike amusement, but when I could no longer follow it up, you
must think, I was fain to fall upon other means for making away with my
time: every man must do that; and what is so natural as to fly to the
pleasure of the table, when we can no longer enjoy the sports of the
field? So long as I could do both, and take them in their turns, all
things went well with me. If a country gentleman like me takes a cup too
much over night, he rides it off the next morning, and there’s an end of
it; but when he is reduced to the helpless situation, in which you now
see me, what is to be done? Life becomes a burden, and the sooner we are
quit of it, the better.

In truth, my good friend, said De Lancaster, I cannot wonder, if a life,
that furnishes no intellectual enjoyments, becomes burdensome: and since
it must be resigned when the disposer of our fate sees fit, it is happy
for us, when called upon to quit this world, if we find upon reflection
that the pleasures of it are not worthy of our regret.

I have had no pleasure in it, replied the dying man, since these people
came out of Spain to molest me. Had your daughter heard reason, when I
first proposed to her, I might have had a son and heir of my own,
British born, and, had that been the case, this mongrel of my brother’s
fathering, half Jew and half Spaniard, might have been a pedlar, and
hawked buckles and buttons about the country to his dying day, for what
I had cared: But that is over, and, except the few personals I have
willed away to huntsman and other of my friends, together with a
keep-sake to your daughter, and my favourite horse Glendowr to my
godson, all the real property I am possessed of must go to David by
entail, and a despicable David he will be, take my word for it.--

He would have said more, and struggled hard for speech, but his efforts
had already exhausted him, and he sunk back in his chair. Robert de
Lancaster rung the bell; the attendants came upon the summons: The good
man cast a pitying look for the last time upon his dying friend and
departed.




CHAPTER II.

_Sir Owen ap Owen Dies._


The next day Sir Owen died, and upon the opening of his will there was
found a bequest to Cecilia De Lancaster of a valuable brilliant diamond,
which he used to display upon his finger on certain days of ceremony,
and a remembrance to his godson John of his favourite hunter Owen
Glendowr. After a proper interval, during which the interment took
place, upon enquiry being made for these tokens, answer was given that
no diamond ring, as described in the will, could be found, and as for
the horse, they might take him away when they would; Sir David Owen saw
no reason why he should find stable room for him, and had ordered him to
be turned out upon the heath.

Galled by this insolent message, our hero with young Williams and two or
three domestics of the castle set out upon the search, and having
traversed the waste for a considerable time, at length discovered the
poor animal, laying in an obscure dell, hamstrung and dead.

When young De Lancaster cast his eyes upon the carcase of this fine
animal, and saw the wounds, that had been inflicted on him, it was with
the utmost difficulty he could command himself so far as to abstain from
any animadversions, that might indicate to the people with him, that his
suspicions pointed at Sir David Owen. He caused them to collect and
pile a heap of stones to mark the spot. He sate upon his horse in
melancholy silence, whilst this work was going on, and having imposed
like forbearance on his party, and completed what he was about, he bade
them follow him, and took his course to the castle.

Whilst this was going on consultation was held at the castle with the
family lawyer upon the circumstance of the diamond ring. In the
discussion of this delicate question the man of law and the man of
learning did not quite agree upon the means to be pursued; but as Davis,
although a pertinacious lawyer, had generally more resources at his
command than he chose all at once to call out, a compromise was made for
time, and the deliberation brought no other point to a conclusion,
except that it was agreed upon to deliberate further on some future
occasion.

John now arrived and in his grandfather’s hearing simply related his
adventure in search of the horse. Mr. De Lancaster was much less
reserved upon this subject than he had been on that of the ring. He even
declared that the wretch, who had been guilty of so barbarous and
malevolent an action was not fit to live: he would give twice the value
of the animal to discover the perpetrator, and Davis immediately
proposed to issue hand bills, offering a liberal reward for that
discovery. To this measure the old gentleman in the warmth of his
resentment gave no opposition, and one hundred pounds was determined
upon as the premium for information.

As soon as our young hero found himself alone with his friend and tutor
Wilson, he avowed the most unreserved suspicion of Sir David Owen--Could
there be any doubt, he demanded, if the wretch, who would not give the
horse the shelter of his stable, could have been any other than the
contriver, if not the actual perpetrator, of the cruelty, that had been
practised upon him? was there any name too bad for such a spiteful
rascal; he would post him upon every whipping post and stocks, in every
ale-house, barber’s shop and blacksmith’s shed throughout the county: he
would set a hundred men to work, and erect a pyramid of stones upon the
horse’s grave, that should perpetuate his infamy to ages.

Heyday, exclaimed Wilson; you are very fertile in devising methods of
revenge, and seem to forget, that you have neither yet brought
conviction to the criminal, or, if you had, that the law will put the
power of punishment into your hands; can you not recollect how much more
noble it is, how much more becoming of a christian and a gentleman, to
forgive than to revenge a wrong? I must wonder where you found that
bitterness of spirit, that would prompt you to entail a never ending
animosity upon your respective families. Can you suppose your
grandfather, your aunt or your parents could be reconciled to such a
proceeding? Certainly not. I am persuaded therefore you will dismiss all
meditations of so revengeful a nature, and wait the event of the
measures, which Davis has in hand for discovering the offender, and in
the meantime, recollect that if you cannot absolutely avoid entertaining
a suspicion, you can at least abstain from publishing it.

I have abstained, he replied, except towards you to whom I open all my
heart; but as I am persuaded that the perpetrator of this scandalous
action, if ever he is traced to conviction, will be found in the person
of him, whom I suspect, before that happens I wish you would contrive to
take or send me out of the way; for unless I were to imprison myself in
the castle, I might chance to cross upon that unworthy gentleman in my
excursions, and indeed, my good sir, I am far from sure, that I should
be capable of that self command and forbearance, which you recommend to
me.

It is to be presumed the substance of this conversation was reported at
head quarters, for the next morning John was summoned before his
grandfather and his aunt in the library, when the former of these
addressed him in the following terms.

John De Lancaster and my grandson, attend to what I am about to say to
you--I would have you to understand and remember that revenge is not
amongst the attributes of a hero, or the virtues of a christian. It
behoves me therefore to caution you against it: I hold it as my
indispensible duty to apprise you of what is expected from a gentleman
of your pure and unpolluted descent through successive generations from
times of the remotest antiquity to the present moment, in which you are
standing before me, the last and only hope, whereon I rest my fortune
and my name. You conceive yourself injured and affronted by a rash and
inconsiderate young man, your senior by some few years, who now inherits
the title and estate of my late friend and neighbour Sir Owen ap Owen:
upon this suspicion, for it amounts to nothing more, you meditate
revenge. Are you quite convinced you can with honour own yourself
affronted by him? I will not speak degradingly of any person’s family,
whether it be Spanish, or whether it be Jewish; but to one, or to the
other, of these we must resort for the pedigree of Sir David’s mother. I
draw no inference from this; I leave it with you for your consideration.
Recollect yourself however, my dear child; compute your age, your
strength, and, if there were no other bar to your resentment, how are
you to execute it? Puerile resentment--What is that? A boyish scuffle it
may be; an interchange perhaps of blows; and what is the result of
blows?--Eternal enmity--Can the spirit of a De Lancaster endure a blow?
Impossible. Sacred and inviolable as the oath of the young Hannibal
against Rome, would be his resolution to avenge himself upon the giver
of that blow.

Ah, sir, sir! exclaimed Cecilia, are you not going from your point, and
justifying what you truly said was not fitting either for a hero or a
christian? I beg you will allow me to send my nephew out of the room,
for I have something to impart to you, that I would not wish him to
hear.

John, who knew too well what his aunt alluded to, instantly left the
room; but the words were irrevocable; the fatal authority, so congenial
with his feeling, had sunk into his heart never to be eradicated.

As soon as he was gone Cecilia apologized to her father for the
interruption she had been guilty of; she said, that knowing, as she did,
that her nephew had for a considerable time past harboured resentment
against young Owen for a blow, she could not but regret that he should
hear a justification of his resentment from such high authority as she
feared would outweigh any thing, that his tutor could advise against it.

Whether this remark, which was confessedly not very politic on the part
of poor alarmed Cecilia, or the consciousness of having overshot his
argument, piqued and disconcerted the good old man, certain it is he did
not receive his daughter’s apology with his usual suavity and candour,
but coldly answered that he was not bound to revoke his opinions merely
because they might not chance to conform with those of Mr. Wilson; and
least of all, said he, should I have suspected that you, Cecilia, who
have ever shewn such deference to my authority, should be alarmed lest
it might outweigh that of any other person.

Heaven forbid, cries Cecilia, that I should ever fail to reverence that
wisdom, which I am of an age to comprehend, but which a youth like my
nephew may misconceive and construe not according to reason and its true
sense, but according to the bent and impulse of his own passions.

You are right, said De Lancaster, recovering his complacency, you are
right, my dear child, and I am sorry that I alluded to the example of
young Hannibal, as I have ever disapproved of Hanno for bringing him at
so early an age to the altar, and implanting hatred and revenge in his
heart by a solemn oath for ever. All this while take notice, I am an
enemy to blows; I never struck your brother Philip in my life, nor
should allow of his striking my grandson John; at the same time there
are blows, that inflict no disgrace; the blows for instance, that are
received in battle, when combating the enemies of our country, where the
hero, although bleeding with his wounds, spares the life of the
opponent, who asks it of him and submits himself to his mercy. I shall
speak upon this more at large to my grandson, and define to him the
several characters and descriptions of blows in such a manner, as may
enable him to distinguish which may be passed over, and which may not;
copying the example of the Sage Chiron the Centaur, who, when tutoring
his pupil young Achilles upon the nature of blows, put a whip into his
hand, and set him astride on his own back, threatening at the same time
to kick him off without mercy, if he ventured to make use of it.

With submission to your better judgment, said Cecilia, smiling at the
ridiculousness of the allusion, I should conceive it may be well to
postpone this lecture till our young Achilles is more able to understand
it, and in the meantime, till this matter of the ham-strung horse is
cleared up, to send him out of harm’s way with his tutor Mr. Wilson, who
meditates to pay a visit to his parish, and has, as you well know,
repairs and improvements to superintend at his parsonage house, where
your people are at work for his accommodation.

Your advice is excellent, my dear Cecilia, cried De Lancaster, rising
from his seat, and shall be strictly followed: Let John be off with the
lark to-morrow morning, and no fear but, in the peaceful mansion of the
christian teacher of forgiveness, he will recover his tranquillity, and
consign all injuries to oblivion.

It was not many minutes after this conversation had passed, when Mr. De
Lancaster, addressing himself to his friend Wilson, said--I perceive, my
good colonel, that the knowledge, which a man gets in his library is of
very little use to himself or others in the world at large: I suspect
that I have been reading every thing to no purpose, whilst Cecilia, who
has read scarce any thing, is wiser than I am.

Aye my good sir, replied Wilson, ’tis even so: we must carry our grey
hairs to school, and learn wisdom of our children. If we would wish to
know what the world is about, we must not enquire of those, who are out
of it, but of those, who are in it.




CHAPTER III.

_Our Hero sets out upon a Visit to his Tutor at his Parsonage House.
Occurrences by the Way._


In a fine autumnal morning, whilst the sun was mounting in the clear
horizon, the Reverend Mr. Wilson and his pupil took their departure from
the castle. They had not less than twenty Welch computed miles to
traverse over a romantic country before they reached the parsonage house
at Shells, now prepared for their reception. What were the prospects,
that opened upon them by the way, how wild, how various, how sublime, we
shall not study to describe, though all the requisites of mountain, wood
and water are at our command, and court us to employ them. If these
beautiful objects lost their effect upon our hero John, it was in great
part owing to another beautiful object, not then present, which greatly
occupied his thoughts, as the immediate scene of his meditation just
then laid at Denbigh, where the young Amelia, unseen but not forgotten,
still kept possession of his heart. The point, towards which he was
shaping his course, would bring him nearer to Denbigh by more than half
the distance between that place and Kray Castle, and though his mind was
not perfectly at peace with respect to Mrs. Jennings, he felt every
tender sentiment for her unoffending charge, and cherished a fond hope
that some happy opportunity might occur to repay him for the
disappointment he had met with and the long absence he had endured.

Whilst our young hero, wholly occupied in these meditations, was
incautiously riding along a slippery path in his descent from the
heights, his horse’s footing failed him and he fell upon his knees:
being an active horseman he lost neither his seat nor his temper, but it
brought other ideas to his recollection, and turning to his companion he
calmly observed, that had his favourite Glendowr been under him, nothing
of that sort could have happened--and what a treasure, added he, have I
been defrauded of? what kind of heart must that man have who could turn
a fine animal, that had been cloathed and pampered in the stable, naked
on a barren heath, only because an uncle, who had left him every think
else, had bequeathed this one token of his remembrance to me as his
godson?

At this instant lawyer Davis rode up to them on a brisk gallop, and
saluting them as he reined in his horse, cried out--Well met,
gentlemen; I thought I kenn’d you as I crossed the hill, and hastened to
give you the intelligence, that I am carrying to the castle, of my
having got such information, as will secure ample damages for the loss
of Sir Owen’s legacy of the horse, and expose to the world one of the
basest and most rascally transactions, that was ever brought to light.

As Davis uttered these words young John De Lancaster turned a look upon
Mr. Wilson that could not fail to be understood, and desired Davis to
relate the particulars--They are soon told, he replied, for the informer
Joe Johnson, who was feeder to Sir Owen’s hounds, has deposed, that by
the express order of his present master the young baronet betook the
horse called Owen Glendowr out of the stable in the evening of the 12th
instant, and accompanied by the said Sir David led him to a bye spot on
the mountain, where in a dell they contrived by ropes to cast, and then
and there to hamstring him by deep incisions on the sinews of his legs,
leaving the poor mangled animal to expire in tortures. Johnson describes
his reluctance to obey commands of so barbarous a nature, but his master
was peremptory, and had caused him to be plied with liquor till he was
so intoxicated, that unless Sir David himself had assisted in the act,
he could not have executed it.

Davis having related these particulars, addressing himself to Mr. Edward
Wilson, added--’Tis a villainous business, reverend sir, a very
villainous business, and if old Mr. De Lancaster shall think fit to
bring it into court, I would not be in Sir David’s case for his estate.
Mr. De Lancaster will do no such thing, said Wilson, that you may rely
upon--No, no, cried John, ’tis not a case to be settled in that way: I’m
satisfied my grandfather will not resort to the law, nor accept of any
compensation for the injury I have suffered from Sir David Owen and his
dog-kennel accomplice. The man, who degrades his character by an action
of that sort, puts his person out of the reach of a gentleman’s
resentment.

This said, the conference broke off: the companions proceeded on their
way, and Davis shaped his course towards the mansion of De Lancaster.

When there arrived and admitted to an audience in the library, he stated
facts rather more circumstantially from the chair than he had done from
the saddle, and having concluded, the old gentleman remained silent for
some time, pondering in his mind the measures he should take: at length,
breaking forth in a tone, that bespoke his resolution formed, he
said--Davis, we must save this wretched young man, if it be possible.
He, who has dabbled in the blood of an animal, may be wrought by
desperation to attempt the life of a fellow creature: he is young, and
may be turned to better thoughts; I am old, and must not be extreme in
justice: Furthermore, I must confess to you, Davis, that I am not quite
reconciled to the means we have taken for eliciting this information
from a scoundrel dog-feeder by the lure of a reward. Your law, I know,
allows it; but your law and my conscience do not always harmonize. This
very fellow, whom we have paid for confessing the act, was probably
paid also for committing it: that is a traffic in iniquity, which I am
sorry to have countenanced. However I will write to Mrs. David Owen, who
in her twofold capacity of mother and guardian, seems the properest
person to recall this young offender to a due contrition for his
offence.

I should doubt that, Davis replied; I am much afraid, worthy sir, you
would not mend your chance by that appeal; for I have another unlucky
evidence in my possession of a damned Jew’s trick in the article of the
diamond ring--

Speak to the point, friend Davis, said the old gentleman, but spare your
expletives; for oaths are not ornaments to an honest man’s discourse--

I ask pardon, rejoined Davis; but really, sir, when one hears of such
scandalous practices, as are carried on in that family between mother
and son, it is enough to make a parson swear--

I should hope not, said De Lancaster; but what do you allude to?--

Why you must know, replied the lawyer, I had my suspicions that all was
not right in the going of the diamond ring, bequeathed to Madam Cecilia,
and reported _non est inventus_; so it came into my mind, that it might
not be amiss to put the old proverb into practice, and set a thief to
catch a thief--

Speak, if you please, without a proverb, said the good old man; I shall
comprehend you better; for in my opinion, Mr. Davis, when our
conversation is to turn upon thieves, the sooner it is concluded, so
that we may dismiss them from our thoughts, the better it will be for us
both.




CHAPTER IV.

_The Humanity of De Lancaster is not permitted to obtain its End._


Our readers will recollect a certain Jew pedlar, Israel Lyons by name,
of whom we have heretofore made mention: this man was in the habit of
employing Davis as his man of business for collecting debts, and
enforcing payments. In the course of his late circuit he had called upon
him, and consulted him upon a secret transaction he had engaged in with
Mrs. Owen respecting a diamond ring of considerable value, which he was
to dispose of in Holland on her account, and for which he had deposited
security in her hands. Upon the production of this ring Davis instantly
recognised it to be the very ring devised to Cecilia by Sir Owen in his
will. Lyons, who immediately saw the danger of his negotiation in its
proper light, readily consented to accompany Davis to Kray Castle for
the purpose of more fully identifying the ring, and to this it was that
Davis alluded, when he was answered by De Lancaster, as was related in
the preceding chapter. He now shewed the ring to that gentleman, who no
sooner cast his eyes upon it, than he said--Put it by! I am satisfied.

So was not Davis, but importunately demanded how he was to proceed--Not
at all, replied De Lancaster, not at all. I am neither prepared to blast
the heir of the Owens for the consideration of a horse, which I can
replace from my own stable, nor the mother of that heir for a bauble,
which I desire you will return to the pedlar, and take care that I have
no concern with dog-feeders, or with Jews.

Davis, struck with astonishment, exclaimed--This is above my
comprehension; it must be as you please; but you will give me leave to
take care of myself, and keep out of the scrape of compromising felony.

With these words he departed, and a servant, entering the room at the
same moment, announced the names of three gentlemen, who solicited a
private conference with Mr. De Lancaster; they were persons of
respectability in the county, but not in the habit of visiting at the
castle, being of the opposite party in politics, and zealously attached
to the interests of the ancient house of Owen.

The venerable owner of Kray Castle met them at the door of his
apartment, and received them with all possible courtesy and respect.
When they were seated, Sir Arthur Floyd (a name not new to the reader of
this history) opened the business as follows--

We wait upon you, Mr. De Lancaster, as friends of the lately deceased
Sir Owen ap Owen, and in virtue of the regard, in which we hold his
memory, are solicitous to preserve the like good opinion of the
successor to his estate and title. A report, which, if true, would stamp
indelible disgrace upon his character, has reached us, relative to his
treatment of a certain favourite horse, which our departed friend
bequeathed to your grandson; we know you lived on terms of friendship
with Sir Owen, and we trust you will participate in our motives, when we
request you (who must of course be acquainted with the particulars, we
are anxious to be informed of) to say whether or not there is any
foundation for the report we allude to.

Gentlemen, said De Lancaster, it is a fact that the horse, which you
describe as a favourite of my late friend, was bequeathed by him to my
grandson John.

And is your grandson now in possession of that horse? In plainer terms,
is the horse alive? This question was not put by Sir Arthur Floyd, and
Mr. De Lancaster, turning to him, with some discomposure demanded, if it
were expected of him to answer all manner of interrogatories in a case,
which he was desirous of dismissing from his thoughts.

To this Sir Arthur Floyd replied, that with all imaginable respect for
his character as a gentleman of the highest honour, they did expect of
him to answer all such questions, as might be honourably put to him in
the matter of a charge so fatal to the reputation of Sir David Owen, if
true; so injurious, if false. We presume also to remind you, sir, that
where the name of De Lancaster is attached to a report, it is such an
authority as no man can dispute, and of course no man ought to doubt.
Upon a point of honour therefore, which by consequence affects yourself
not less than it does us, we conjure you to tell us plainly whether the
horse be dead or living.

The horse is dead; in that state he was found by my grandson and his
servant on the heath.

You will permit us to ask, said one of the party, if there were not
marks of violence upon the carcase; in short, sir, was not the horse
hamstrung upon all his legs?

I am told he was.

Was there any enquiry made as to the perpetrator, or perpetrators, of
that butchery?

I am constrained to say there was. Lawyer Davis made enquiry.

And when lawyer Davis traced out the perpetrators of that most shameful
act, have the goodness to inform us whether he did, or did not, find
evidence to implicate Sir David Owen as a party in the act itself.

Let lawyer Davis answer that himself, replied De Lancaster in a firm
tone of voice; I decline it, and you must excuse me.

We shall refer ourselves to lawyer Davis, said the spokesman, and we
hope you will permit your grandson and his servant to attend on the
occasion. If we find Sir David Owen guilty on the charge, this will be
no country for him to live in; at least he cannot live in it with us. In
the mean time we thank you, worthy sir, for your very handsome reception
of us, and shall be ever forward to bear testimony to your candour and
delicacy towards the character of a most unhappy young man, if our fears
prove true. We are sensible, Mr. De Lancaster, you could have said much
more, and we know that it was honour alone, that extorted from you what
you did say, and generosity, that suppressed what you did not say.

The party were now rising to take their leave, when the old gentleman
entreated their patience for a few minutes--we have been discoursing, he
said, upon a very unpleasant subject. The young man, who now wears the
title of my departed friend, is just entering on the world, and being
native of another country, and not educated amongst us, may perhaps have
been betrayed into some irregularities, that cannot stand a rigid
scrutiny; I will venture therefore to submit to you, whether it may not
be advisable to let this affair pass over without any further
investigation, assured as you may be, that the charge shall never be
stirred by me, or any one of my family.

To this Sir Arthur Floyd made answer as follows--What you have now
proposed to us, Mr. De Lancaster, is a proof of that candour and
benignity, which have ever marked your character; but you know full well
what has long been the state of party interests in this county, and to
which side we have hitherto adhered; you must also be aware that the day
is not far off, when probably we must again declare ourselves: It
behoves us therefore to be made secure of the honour and character of
that gentleman, young although he is, on whom that consequence and
leading interest have devolved, which we have been accustomed to look up
to. We must therefore in our own justification decline your generous
proposal, which we are convinced you would not have made, had you not
been satisfied, or suspicious at least, of the young man’s criminality.

This said they rose, and with much courteous ceremony on both sides took
their leave, and departed.




CHAPTER V.

_Philip De Lancaster sets out upon his Travels._


When De Lancaster had reseated himself in his chair, and devoted a few
minutes to meditation, the door of his library was opened, and our young
hero respectfully approached him to receive his welcome and embrace.

What brings thee hither, John De Lancaster? said the grandfather.

My father sent for me.

That’s true; that’s true. He would take his leave of you before he sets
out upon his journey to the south of France. An opinion has prevailed
that your mother must winter in a warmer climate, and your father is
going to make preparations for her residence at Montpelier. Upon these
occasions I do not chuse to interpose: he will follow his own fancy, and
that is about as likely to lead him to Jerusalem as to Montpelier: and
your mother, John, your mother, never will go hence but to her grave.
Nature is in absolute decay; her vital powers are exhausted, and
Llewellyn either knows her inability to undertake the journey, or is
blockhead enough to believe it practicable, and knows nothing of his
business. You will say, why do I not dissuade your father from setting
out upon this fruitless journey? I answer, because it is not worth my
while; for whom does it concern in what spot of earth upon this
habitable globe a listless creature doses out unprofitable time? Let him
go, let him go; I rest no further hopes on him. The tree, which
emblematically bears the fortunes of my house, is withering at the top,
dead in its middle branches, whilst there is yet one scyon, that has
life and vigour: Yes, my child, I am passing away; thy father is gone
by, but thou, with the blessing of providence, art springing up and
bursting into bloom, I have thy tutor’s testimony strongly vouched in
thy favour, and with rapture I contemplate the auspicious promise of
those dawning virtues, which in the riper character of the man will be
the ornament and safe-guard of our ancient stock. And now, John, I must
apprise thee of an affair, that will put those virtues to the test. Some
neighbouring gentlemen, who are amongst the chief supporters of the Owen
interest, have this morning been with me to enquire into the
circumstances of Sir David’s treatment of you in the matter of the horse
bequeathed to you by your godfather; and they are determined to call
upon you and Davis for your evidence, that they may sift it to the
bottom.

With all my heart, cried John, the colour mounting to his cheeks. I
desire nothing better than to meet Sir David Owen face to face, and
depose what I know of that rascally transaction in the most public
manner before all his friends, be they who they may.

Hold, hold, my child, said De Lancaster, you must not forget how much
modesty and forbearance become your years. You must put all angry
thoughts aside, when you are called upon to speak the truth without
prejudice or animosity; and that you may be kept in mind of that duty, I
shall desire your worthy tutor to accompany you to that discussion.

I hope you will not think that necessary, John replied, for if I have
nothing to do but to speak the truth, I trust I do not want a tutor to
teach me that.

Go then, said De Lancaster; be it as thou sayest! for I perceive the
spirit of my race, which has passed over thy father, descends upon thee.
Go, when thou art called for; but remember, truth must not be told with
aggravation, nor in our resort to justice must we gratify revenge.

At this moment Mr. Philip De Lancaster walked into the room, and
addressing himself after his cool manner to his son--You are come just
in time, he said, for I have taken leave of your mother, and have
nothing to do but to pay my duty to my father, and set out upon my
journey. I leave you in the care of such good friends, that you stand in
no need of any advice from me; and, if you did, I know not what else I
could say to you, but to recommend it to you to be a good boy, to pay
attention to your tutor, to carry yourself dutifully to your
grandfather, mother and aunt, to recollect that you are but a child in
age and understanding, and in a word to mind your book and say your
prayers. Now go up to your mother; she expects you in her bed chamber;
tread softly, (do you mind) and be careful of alarming her, for, though
she bore parting from me with perfect tranquillity, the least noise will
shake her nerves, and throw her into tremors.

I shall observe your caution, sir, the youth replied; but if it is your
pleasure that I should attend upon you again before you take your
departure, I will simply pay my duty to my mother, and wait upon you to
your carriage.

No, no, child, cried the father, there is no occasion for that ceremony.
I don’t wish any body to attend upon me to my carriage, but the
servant, that goes with me.

The disappointed youth cast a parting look of sensibility on his father,
bowed respectfully and left the room.

I perceive, son Philip, said the old gentleman, that, nearly allied as
you are to my grandson John, you are not acquainted with his manly
character, when you talk to him as to a child--but of this we will say
no more--so long as I have life his education will be my care, and at my
death it will be found I have not been less careful of his interest. You
are now going to the continent, and I sincerely wish you health and a
pleasant tour; but if you calculate upon Mrs. De Lancaster’s chance of
ever reaching Montpelier, I greatly fear you will be disappointed, and I
therefore recommend it to you to postpone providing an establishment
for her there or elsewhere, till you are further advised from us. Your
equipage I see is waiting, and nothing remains for me, but to bid you
heartily farewell.

This said, they both rose, embraced and parted never to meet again.




CHAPTER VI.

_Dark Doings at the Abbey of Penruth._


When long disease hath sapped the vital powers, and death creeps on by
painless slow approaches, the mind is oftentimes observed to assume a
dignified composure, and even an elevation of sentiment, which did not
appear to belong to it in the body’s better health: so it was with the
mother of our hero. She was reposing on her couch with Cecilia sitting
by her side, and when her son approached raised herself up to receive
him--I am delighted to see you, my dear child, she said, and I hope your
grandfather will consent to your residing in the castle for the very
short time I have yet to live: though I have little strength to hold
discourse with you, yet it is a consolation to know you are within my
call, and that, so long as sight is not taken from me, I may gratify
that sense--nay, my beloved son, don’t shed a tear for me--rather
rejoice that I am drawing near to the end of a dull journey, joyless at
the best, and not less wearisome to others than to myself. I have parted
from your father: if he persuades himself that I shall follow him, it is
a harmless delusion; if he does not, it is a commodious plea to escape
a trouble, and exchange a melancholy scene for an amusing one; at all
events, whatever object he may have in view, I hope that you, who have
never experienced his care, will have no occasion to lament his absence.

To this John made some answer not necessary to record, when by a signal
from his aunt understanding that his mother stood in need of silence and
repose, he took the hint and quietly departed. The project of his
passing a few weeks with Mr. Wilson at the parsonage was now laid aside,
and in compliance with his mother’s wishes, he resumed his station and
his studies at the castle, holding himself ever ready to obey her
summons, when she wished to see him.

The next morning brought Sir Arthur Floyd once more to the castle. He
came to ask the favour of young De Lancaster’s company at his own house,
and that he would allow his servant Williams to attend together with
lawyer Davis, who would provide himself with the deposition of Sir
David’s feeder. It was matter of no small regret to the good old man
that these gentlemen were so resolute to persist in their investigation
of this odious business, but having pledged his word, he would not
retract it, and young John who had not all those repugnant feelings,
which his grandfather had, was speedily equipped, and having put himself
under the convoy of Sir Arthur Floyd, soon found himself in his
conductor’s house, and greeted with all possible politeness by the
gentlemen there assembled. Sir David Owen was not yet arrived, and some
began to doubt if he would attend the meeting. At length he was
discovered coming down the avenue, followed by his huntsman and his
groom, himself and his attendants being in the uniform of the hunt.

Upon his entering the room, where the company had assembled, he either
did not see, or chose to take no notice of De Lancaster: but observing
to the gentlemen, that having understood them to be called together for
the purpose of arranging the rules and regulations of the union-hunt, he
expected to have found them in their proper colours, and wished to be
informed if any thing had occurred to give them dissatisfaction.

We naturally expect that question from you, said Sir Arthur Floyd, and
are prepared to answer, that until you can vindicate yourself from a
charge, that is made against you, we are and ought to be dissatisfied,
and therefore it is we do not shew our colours, till we are convinced by
you we need not be ashamed to wear them.

How am I to convince you of that, gentlemen, but by wearing them myself?
However as you insinuate, that a charge is made against me, let me know
the nature of that charge, and who it is, that presumes to circulate any
thing to my discredit.

Hear me with patience, Sir Arthur replied, and I will state it to you
without aggravation. You are suspected to have mal-treated the favourite
horse Glendowr, which your uncle left by will to this young gentleman,
Mr. John De Lancaster, here present.

I see that he is present, but I do not see the right by which he meets
the members of a hunt, that he has no concern with. He is here however;
such is your pleasure, and I presume he is here for some purpose, best
known to yourselves. I am suspected, it seems: what answer can I give to
that? Can you substantiate any charge against me? If you can, state it.

This it is, said Sir Arthur, rising from his seat--The horse, that
consistently with the manners of a gentleman, ought to have been
delivered according to the purport of your uncle’s will, or at least
carefully retained in your stable, was unhandsomely turned out upon the
mountain, and there found hamstrung in every leg, most barbarously and
feloniously mangled, and dying dead upon the ground.

Who found him there?

I found him, young De Lancaster replied; I and my servant found him
there, and in that very condition, which you have heared described.

Well, if you did, what is all that to me?

It is to you, rejoined Sir Arthur Floyd, if the deposition of your own
menial servant, charging you as the instigator to, and accomplice in,
that barbarous act, cannot be done away. This man is now waiting with
Mr. Davis the attorney, ready to substantiate his averment upon oath,
and I am the magistrate, that will administer it to him, if you so
require.

Not I, not I, exclaimed the haughty culprit: I will not condescend to
answer to a charge, that is evidenced by a dog-feeder, contrived,
abetted and encouraged by a mercenary attorney. I came to meet you here
as brother sportsmen, I find you what I will not say. As for that
attorney, whom I know to be in the pay and employ of my enemy, I hold
him as a wretch too despicable for any notice on my own account; let
him propagate and pursue his charge against me as he will, I care not;
but I accuse him, and will have him prosecuted to the utmost rigour of
the law, as the slanderer and defamer of my innocent and injured mother.

Davis, who had entered the room, unseen of young Owen, and planted
himself behind his chair, now stept forward, and demanded to know of
what he was accused. It was not immediately that the arrogance of this
hardened youth, thus taken by surprise, could recover from his
embarrassment; at length, after some hesitation, being again called upon
to explain himself, he turned to Davis with an assumed air of bravery,
and said--I am given to understand you have not scrupled to affix upon
my mother Mrs. Owen the abominable scandal of having secreted a
valuable diamond ring, which appears in my uncle’s will as a legacy to
Mrs. Cecilia De Lancaster; but which ring after the minutest search is
no where to be found. This I aver to be a libel of the grossest sort.

And so it would be, I confess, said Davis, were I not provided with
evidence to prove that this same valuable diamond ring was found by Mrs.
Owen, and by her consigned to the Jew Israel Lyons, under the seal of
secresy, and upon security by him given for the value, to be by him
taken out of the kingdom and sold in Holland on her account and for her
emolument. I have the ring here in my hand ready to produce, the very
ring, which was bequeathed by your uncle, and which you say could not be
found amongst the effects of the deceased. Bear witness for me,
gentlemen, I am compelled to produce this article in my own defence, and
do not voluntarily disobey the positive injunctions of my worthy patron
Mr. De Lancaster, who honourably commanded me to stifle the discovery,
and put up with any injuries, rather than expose the parties to shame,
so much more care had that good gentleman for them than they have had
for themselves; but thus accused, and forced on my defence, what could I
do but what I now have done?

To this no answer was attempted: astonishment seized the company: Sir
David Owen started from his seat, and glancing a malicious look upon our
young hero as he passed him--I’ll not forget you, sir, he cried: the
time will come when you shall hear of this.




CHAPTER VII.

_Events consequential of the Meeting at Sir Arthur Floyd’s. The last
Chapter of the Second Book._


As soon as the convicted baronet had made his hasty exit, the parties
present in their court of honour on the spot unanimously adjudged him
infamous, and with one voice voted him unworthy of their acquaintance.
The question was stirred if any notice should be taken of the ring,
produced by Davis in his own defence. To this it was objected, that as
it had no concern with the case immediately before them, it was
conceived advisable to pass it over, and leave Mr. De Lancaster to act
as he saw fit. They had heard with indignation the insolent menace,
which Owen had thrown out as he was leaving the room, and they
unanimously besought our hero to treat it with its due contempt; Sir
Arthur Floyd in particular insisted upon his right, as master of the
house, to take all such affronts upon himself: John made his
acknowledgment to the speaker with a respectful bow, but offered no
reply.

When he called for his horse to return to the castle, they were six in
number, all principal supporters of the Owen interest, who mounted at
the same time, and having escorted him every step of the way to his
home, rode with him into the castle court, where the venerable host,
summoned by the tolling of his porter’s bell, presented himself to bid
them welcome at the great hall door: his orange-tawney livery-men stood
behind him in their files, and he ushered them into the saloon, where
they were received in form by Cecilia, who was there attending with
Colonel Wilson and his son Edward, the preceptor of their companion
John.

When all introductory ceremonials were over, Sir Arthur Floyd, their
spokesman as before, recounted briefly what had passed, and the
resolution they had taken of abandoning an unworthy connection, and for
the future giving their support decidedly in favour of the house of
Lancaster, whenever opportunity presented itself of demonstrating their
attachment.

To this De Lancaster made answer, that the honour they conferred upon
him, was at once so unexpected and so unmerited, that he felt himself
ill prepared to find expressions, that might do justice to his
feelings.--My holdings, he said, in this county, it is well known are
not of yesterday; they have devolved upon me through a series of
ancestors, in whose steps I have endeavoured to tread, and to whose
politics and opinions, (as far as I could guess what they would have
been in these times by what they appear to have been in their own) I
have steadily adhered. Little as I know of the secrets of government, I
may have been in error; but if I have been pertinacious in opinion, I
trust I have never been found illiberal or unneighbourly to those
honourable gentlemen, who differed from me. I lived in friendship with
Sir Owen, and we never suffered politics to damp the harmony of our
social hours. I lamented his death; but the disgrace, that has fallen on
his family in the person of his successor, is to me extremely grievous:
I fear it has gone too far to be entirely remedied, but some alleviation
may perhaps be thought of, if in addition to the honour you have
already shewn me, you will be pleased to confirm our friendly contract
by consenting to partake my homely meal.

The hospitality of Kray Castle was in no danger of being put out of
countenance by any want of preparation; the guests sate down to a
plenteous board, and the genius of Cecilia added elegance to abundance.
What the benevolence of De Lancaster could obtain for Sir David Owen
amounted only to a general promise, that the affair should be allowed to
sleep, and no further notice taken of any thing, that passed during the
discussion at Sir Arthur Floyd’s.

It is to be presumed that De Lancaster was punctilious in returning the
visit of every gentleman, who had dined with him at the castle. On these
occasions he was constantly accompanied by his grandson, so that the
old state coach and fat horses were for a time in more than ordinary
requisition.

Whilst they were upon a visit at Sir Arthur Floyd’s a very beautiful
horse, which was purposely led out of the stable, attracted every body’s
notice, and particularly that of our young hero, who ran out of doors to
have a nearer view of him. A little stable-boy was mounted on his back,
and put him through his paces on the lawn before the house: the
gentleness of the fine animal was as much to be admired as the beauty.
John was asked if he would back him; the proposal was immediately
accepted, and as there was a fine expanse of lawn for John’s equestrian
performances, he took a considerable circuit, and having given a very
handsome specimen of his jockeyship, returned in perfect raptures with
the horse, pronouncing him to be incomparably the best he had ever
mounted, his lamented favourite Glendowr alone excepted. The horse was
put into the stable, and nothing more passed upon the subject at that
time.

In the evening John returned with his grandfather to the castle, when
upon stepping out of the coach, a letter was put into his hand, that had
the signature of the several gentlemen of the new coalition, and was to
the following purport--

              “Dear Sir,

     As you seemed pleased with the horse, which we invited you to make
     trial of, we have taken the liberty of putting him into your
     stable, and jointly request that you will not refuse to gratify us
     by your acceptance of him. When we tell you he is full brother to
     Glendowr, we flatter ourselves we cannot better recommend him to
     you, and when we assure you, that we can no otherwise be reconciled
     to the disgrace of our late connection with Sir David Owen, except
     by your allowing us to present you with this token of our esteem,
     we trust you will not mortify us by a refusal.

                     We have the honour to be,
                                            &c. &c.”

Though John was highly delighted with this present, he did not consider
himself secure in the possession of it, till he had submitted the letter
to his grandfather. The good old man was under no difficulty as to his
decision, for luckily this was one of the few questions, that in his
contemplation did not wear two faces; so that he said at once, applying
himself to his friend Colonel Wilson--I see no reason why my grandson
should decline this very handsome compliment.

There is no reason, said the colonel.

And why is there none? rejoined the other: why, but because a horse, or
a sword, is by all the rules of chivalry, a present of honour, which it
is no degradation to accept, though it were tendered to a general or a
prince?

I conceive it degrades no man to accept a present from a friend.

I am not sure of that. Friendship can sanctify many things, but not all.
An equipoise of favours is essential to friendship, but an overweight
throws it out of its balance: it then becomes patronage, and the party
obliged incurs a debt, which although it be the debt of gratitude,
entails a duty upon him, and is not of the true spirit of friendship.
Therefore it is that a king can hardly have a real friend--“Gods, how I
should love Augustus, said a certain Roman, if he were not Cæsar.” The
anecdote is to the point of my remark.

I dare say it is, said the Colonel, but I cannot exactly understand how
it applies to the point in question.

If you allude to the question whether my grandson John should accept the
horse, that is settled; there cannot be two opinions in that case:
favours of that sort are not to be refused.

I rejoice to hear it, rejoined the colonel, for I consider it as an
earnest of future favours, when my friend John shall be of age to take
the duties of our county member on himself, unanimously chosen.

Ah my good friend, said the old man and sighed, that day is distant, and
that chance is doubtful: in the meantime my all depends upon a single
stake, and though your worthy son is he of all mankind, in whom I can
repose the fullest trust, yet in the life of that beloved youth, on whom
I rest my hopes, there is a period yet to pass full of alarm and danger.
John has an ardent spirit, and I fear is much more likely to resent
affronts than treat them with contempt. If this malicious Owen is to
live amongst us, and persist in his unworthy practices, I can foresee
the time must come, when my brave boy will bring him to account. Who can
prevent it? not the donors of his horse; their handsome present may
repair his loss, but will it make atonement for the insult he has
received? What can I do? I am not the man to talk to him: young as he
is, he has possessed himself of my sentiments, and I cannot retract
what I have said. Talk to him yourself; you are a soldier, and upon a
point of honour no man can speak with more authority: try if you can
persuade him to think as you do.

Were I to do that, my good sir, replied the colonel, I fear your
grandson would not derive security of person from the rules of practice,
that men of my profession are compelled to follow; but I can hold my
tongue, and that is quite as much as I will undertake for in any case,
where the honour of your family is brought into question. I love your
gallant boy; every body loves him; but what I would not say to my own
son, I could not say to him. I am however inclined to believe that Sir
David Owen will in no future time find resolution to insult your
grandson; but, if he does, I cannot find resolution to dissuade him
from taking proper notice of it.

Well! let it pass, resumed De Lancaster. My boy must take his fate. I
had no right to look for other sentiments from you, and if they are, as
I suspect, irreconcilable to reason and religion, we are both of us I
fear in the same condemnation.

       *       *       *       *       *

If in the long course of my literary labours I had been less studious to
adhere to nature and simplicity, I am perfectly convinced I should have
stood higher in estimation with the purchasers of copy rights, and
probably been read and patronized by my contemporaries in the proportion
of ten to one. To acquire a popularity of name, which might set the
speculating publishers upon out-bidding one another for an embryo work
(perhaps in meditation only) seems to be as proud and enviable a
pre-eminence as human genius can arrive at: but if that pre-eminence has
been acquired by a fashion of writing, that luckily falls in with the
prevailing taste for the romantic and unnatural, that writer, whosoever
he may be, has only made his advantage of the present hour, and
forfeited his claim, upon the time to come: having paid this tribute to
popularity, he certainly may enjoy the profits of deception, and take
his chance for being marked out by posterity (whenever a true taste for
nature shall revive) as the misleader and impostor of the age he lived
in.

The circulation of a work is propagated by the cry of the many; its
perpetuity is established by the fiat of the few. If we have no concern
for our good name after we have left this world, how do we greatly
differ from the robber and assassin?--But this is nothing but an old
man’s prattle. Nobody regards it--We will return to our history.


                        END OF THE SECOND BOOK.




                            BOOK THE THIRD.




CHAPTER I.

_The Mother of our Hero, being at the Point of Death, takes her last
Farewell of her Father-in-law._


The order of our history requires us to attend upon the worthy
grandfather of our hero to the death-bed of his daughter-in-law, who had
expressed a wish to see him. She took his hand, and pressing it to her
heart, said--I thank you, sir, for this and all the proofs of kindness,
which you have uniformly been pleased to show me, though I am conscious
it has never been my happy lot to contribute to your comforts, or to
reflect either grace or ornament upon your family, even in the slightest
degree. Of your son my husband I forbear to speak; when he took his
departure, and left me on the plea of providing a retreat for me upon
the continent, I was too well apprised of my situation not to know that
we should meet no more, and under that impression I took leave of him
for ever. I have given an heir to your name and family, for whose dear
sake, from his birth to the present moment, my agitated heart, though I
have laboured to appear composed, has secretly been racked with sad
forebodings. I am a woman, sir, and those presentiments, which your
strong sense would spurn, sink deep in my weak mind--

Here her speech failed her; her breath fluttered, and quitting the hand
of De Lancaster, she snatched at the sheet, as if convulsion had began
to seize her. Cecilia was at hand, but tears had furnished the relief,
which she was advancing to administer, and the subject, which this short
alarm had interrupted, was resumed as follows--

My seeming dereliction of that darling child must have degraded me in
your opinion; you could not fail to think me void of those affections,
which are natural to a mother, and despised me for my seeming
insensibility. Alas, how very different was the state of my too fond,
too feeling heart! But there were reasons, over-ruling reasons--I cannot
tell them now--They will come to your knowledge--Let the charge lie by,
till the defence can meet it. It would have blessed me to have seen my
father; but he cannot come to me, and when I go to him, it will be only
in my body’s passage to its grave. He has kindly anticipated my wishes,
by leaving my dear son sole heir of his estate. Though it is but little
that I have to devise, yet I have made a will; for so much in it as
concerns my son, I trust he will fulfil the obligations I impose upon
him. If he shall live to be of age, and you survive, (which Heaven in
mercy grant) to see that day, all may be well: I leave him in your care;
I have done so always, and have kept my word; I have not made him that
disgustful thing, a mother’s favourite son. Ah sir, correct the errors
of his youth, but control not the affections of his heart. If,
overlooking rank and fortune, they should honourably and worthily be
fixt on merit in obscurity, do not I implore you--it is my last, my
dying petition--do not oppose his choice. There is an humble being in
the world, lovely and full of promise--oh, if she--if she should--

Whilst these words were yet upon her lips, she sunk down upon her bed
as one, whose life had left her in that moment. Whilst Cecilia and the
women in attendance were busied in assisting her, De Lancaster stood in
deep and pensive meditation with his eyes fixed upon her pallid
countenance, and as the tear dropt upon his aged cheek, he said to his
daughter--Your endeavours to restore her will be fruitless: and, if an
easy death is what we helpless mortals ought to wish for, ’tis hardly to
be hoped you may.

This said, he withdrew, and turning into the gallery discovered John
alone, and intent upon the perusal of a paper, which upon seeing his
grandfather he hastily folded up and thrust into his pocket.

John, I would speak to you, said the old gentleman, and bidding him sit
down, addressed him in these words--Young as you are, you are not now
to learn what a precarious tenure we frail mortals hold in any thing on
this side death, to which we all must come.

I understand you, sir; you come to tell me of my mother’s death.

Not altogether so; but if I did, I can believe your excellent preceptor
has prepared you to meet misfortune as becomes you. Methinks you hardly
can have glanced your eye upon a single page in any moral book, that
does not give you lessons of that sort. Even your pagan poets, whilst
with idle levity they counsel you to devote your time to pleasure, give
you at least fair warning of its shortness.

True, sir, but we have better masters than they are, to whom we may
apply. I am aware that there are no hopes for my poor mother; and it is
nothing strange that she should die, who for years past can hardly have
been said to live: but that my father, seeing her condition, could leave
her almost in the article of death, is matter of astonishment to me.

Such is his nature, John; and whether we must call it the defect of head
or heart is more than I can tell. He is gone however, whither I know
not, and she, poor soul, who has known little happiness on earth, is
going where alone it can be sought. Her last care was for
you.--Something there was, some wish that seemed to weigh upon her
heart; but in her effort to express it, nature failed her, and she
fainted.

That--that indeed--cried John, was most unfortunate. Did she let fall no
words to guide conjecture?

Her words, De Lancaster replied, I am perfect in--“There was an humble
being in the world, lovely and full of promise--Oh, if she--if she
should”--There she stopt.

It is enough! John cried. I’ll wait here with your leave till I am
permitted to pay my last sad duty to a parent, whom I have known but at
the close of life.

As Mr. De Lancaster was rising to depart, it occurred to him to enquire
about the paper, which John had so hastily thrust into his pocket--Let
me know, he said, what you were reading so attentively when I entered
the gallery. It seemed a letter, and by the eagerness with which you put
it up, I suspect it may contain some interesting matter: If so, John,
you hardly will conceal it from me.

Certainly not, replied the youth, if you command me to produce it; but
I am sorry that you noticed it, for it will only bring to your
recollection a subject totally unworthy of your thoughts at any time,
especially in a moment like the present. It is, as you supposed, a
letter; an insolent one you may well believe, for it comes from Sir
David Owen; but as he has quitted the country, I hope you will not ask
to see the favour he has bestowed on me at parting.

Grandson, resumed De Lancaster, I am become too much a party in the
subject you allude to, not to be interested in whatever correspondence
you may hold with that dishonourable young man; therefore let me see
what he has written to you.

This authoritative order was instantly obeyed; the letter was delivered,
and De Lancaster read as follows--

     “You have begun very early in life, young gentleman, to take a
     decided part against me and my family, and you are not to wonder,
     if henceforward and for ever I shall be found to act with
     reciprocal hostility towards you and your’s.

     “You have arraigned my character in the matter of the horse, and
     the oldest and firmest friends of my house have been spirited away
     by your grandfather to desert me, and attach themselves to him--Do
     you flatter yourself I can forget this? Are you weak enough to
     suppose I will forgive it?

     “By the right I have over the cattle in my keeping I turned that
     horse out of my stables, and I am free to own it was no
     recommendation to me, that you assumed to have a claim to him,
     which claim you neglected, or was ashamed, to make.

     “As for the ring, which your attorney was instructed to demand, my
     mother, who is not obliged, nor expected to recognise what she
     never saw, has nothing to do with the charge: she has nevertheless
     given it up to your said attorney, and your aunt is at liberty to
     wear it; my consolation is, she can wear no ring of my uncle’s
     giving but as a legatee.

     “As I am not a native of your island, I am leaving it without
     regret. Don’t persuade yourself however that I shall forget what
     has passed, or forfeit any opportunity of avenging my injured
     honour.

                                                  David ap Owen.”




CHAPTER II.

_The Mother of our Hero dies._


De Lancaster having read the letter, inserted in our preceding chapter,
and for a few moments pondered on the contents of it, was about to put
it into his pocket, when his grandson eagerly requested that he would
allow him to keep possession of it--Of what use can it be to you?, said
the old gentleman.

It will remind me, John replied, that I owe the writer of it an answer.

And what sort of answer would you wish to give him?

Exactly such an one, as becomes your grandson.

And what is so becoming as forgiveness?

The writer does not seem to be of that opinion.

Who cares for his opinion, cried De Lancaster? An inconsiderate, rash,
intemperate boy--Let me rather recommend to you the opinion and example
of Pisistratus, who, when supreme in Athens, where every man’s life was
in his power, had the magnanimity to forgive the brutal insult of
Thrasippus, who, when heated with wine, after venting all the foulest
words his malice could suggest, turned upon Pisistratus, as he was
graciously soliciting him to resume his seat at the table, and vented
his filthy rheum in his face: here is a noble instance of forbearance
for you, my dear John: imitate Pisistratus!

Then I must be endowed with the power of Pisistratus, John replied,
before I can aspire to emulate his forbearance: you must also allow Sir
David Owen the plea of drunkenness and of course the loss of reason. If
under these circumstances I had the power of condemning him to death as
an atonement for his insolence, certainly I should not exercise that
power, as it could be no proof of an honourable spirit to revenge myself
upon a defenceless man? and when my word was to decide for life or
death, I should conceive no choice was left to me but to forgive. I can
honour Pisistratus very highly for his royal magnanimity, but I suspect,
my dear grandfather, I must wait till I am a king before I can save
myself from the imputation of cowardice by quoting his example. If I
could suppose myself too great to be dishonoured by an insult, I hope I
should be too generous to be gratified by revenging it.

Grandson, said the old man, (vainly endeavouring to repress his
feelings) I perceive you are too subtle to be caught by sophistry. You
distinguish rightly: the instance I adduced does not apply to the case
in question. Here is your letter; take it, but recollect that your
honour is not yet called upon to notice its contents. Mere malice only
merits your contempt; reserve your spirit for a worthier cause, and may
providence in its mercy grant you length of days! for if you, who seem
born to give the brightest lustre to a name of no mean note, should in
the blossom of your virtues prematurely fall, and I survive to mourn the
extinction of my hopes, and the loss of one so infinitely dear, what
will it avail me that the last sun, which went down in my horizon, threw
a gleam of light, that glittered as it sunk to rise no more?

A signal now given by Cecilia summoned our young hero into his mother’s
chamber. A life passed without pleasure was now about to close in a
death without pain. Though the power of speech was lost, her actions
indicated that she possessed her senses to the last. In her expiring
moments she had grasped the hand of her son so fast in her’s, that it
would have required a stronger effort than he was disposed to make for
disengaging it from her hold, and it was not till several sad minutes
had gone by, when the convulsive nerve relaxed, and the maternal
pressure was no longer felt.

John now withdrew from this melancholy scene, and, retiring to his
chamber, devoted himself for a while to solitary sorrow.

As the deceased had signified a wish to Cecilia, that her remains might
be deposited in the family vault at Glen Morgan, orders were given to
that effect. By what fit messenger to impart the mournful event to the
good old man, who had now lost his only child, was matter of debate till
the Reverend Mr. Wilson offered himself for that errand; this being
adjusted, he set out and was instructed to say that Mr. De Lancaster
with Cecilia, John and Colonel Wilson would accompany the hearse to the
place of burial. Poor old Morgan, now perfectly disabled by the gout,
received the intelligence, for which he was prepared, with becoming
resignation, and a fitter person than Edward Wilson to reconcile him to
that dispensation no where could be found--You see, sir, said the old
man to Wilson, the miserable state I am in, and can witness how
impossible it was for me to have paid the last sad duty of a father to
my dying child. I ought not, and I will not, lament that her exhausted
spirit is at length released, for I know too well that existence has
been burdensome to her, who is no more; but I must ever painfully
reflect, that there was a period in her life, when, had she been open
and sincere in her appeal, I think I was not capable of forcing her to
marry against her inclination: no, let me hope I never was that
tyrant--but alas! that time can never be recalled--She is dead, and he,
that was her choice, is dead, and I, that might, and would, have made
them happy, still languish at the end of life, only to mourn their loss.

Not so, said Wilson, not exactly so; I have a precious relique in my
care, that’s worth your living for.

That’s true, that’s true, cried Morgan. Whilst my grandson John
survives, De Lancaster and I, let death come when it will, may truly
say--_Non toti morimur_.

As the worthy old man emphatically dealt out this scrap of Latin, which
Seneca and his memory had supplied him with, the animation it inspired
was visible to Edward Wilson, who had kept his eyes upon him: one of
those faint fleeting smiles with which even pain and sorrow will at
times be seen to greet a cheering recollection, passed over his
countenance, as he dwelt upon the thought of his beloved grandson, and
Edward was not backward to prolong and heighten the consolatory impulse
by indulging him with various anecdotes to the honour of his pupil, and
fixing his attention on a pleasant topic, which is a secret in _the art
of healing_, that some practitioners either don’t seem to know, or are
not willing to make use of.

It was now in Morgan’s power to circulate his orders to his trusty
house-keeper and butler for the mansion to be prepared, and all things
needful to be put in readiness against the arrival of the family from
Kray Castle. Neither was it omitted to provide an apartment for the
young Amelia, who together with Mrs. Jennings was invited to be present
at the funeral of her patroness and friend.




CHAPTER III.

_The Scene changes to Glen-Morgan._


When the appointed morning came, and the hearse with its attendant
mourners issued from the portal of the court of Kray Castle, the tenants
of De Lancaster presented themselves in a body and fell in respectfully
and silently in rear of the cavalcade; but when Sir Arthur Floyd and the
party of gentlemen, who had dined at the castle attached themselves to
the train, following the coach, in which De Lancaster was seated, till
they came to the last verge of his domain, where the tenants dispersed,
and they approached to pay their valedictory respects, the venerable old
man, overcome even to tears by the unexpected compliment, and, bowing
from the window of his coach, had only strength to say--Gentlemen, I
thank you from my heart! you have conferred an honour and a favour upon
me and mine, which I never shall forget.

When they arrived upon the lands of Glen Morgan, though yet at some
distance from the house, they were again met and escorted by the tenants
and retainers of that ancient and opulent family, till they arrived at
the place of their destination.

Here Mr. De Lancaster, by the persuasion of his daughter, consented to
repose after the fatigue and agitation of the journey, whilst Cecilia
and her nephew, as chief mourners, followed the body to the church,
there to consign it with all solemnity to the vault, where the remains
of the Morgans had been deposited for many generations.

The crowd, which such a spectacle could not fail to bring together, were
not so engrossed by their sorrow as to prevent them from bestowing their
attention on the countenance of the youthful heir, and dull indeed must
have been the eye, which had not discerned that spirit of innate
benevolence, which not all the clouds of sorrow could obscure. Our hero
had now advanced into his eighteenth year; he was tall of stature, erect
in person and of manly growth and proportion. When he led his aunt from
the church, after the solemnity was concluded, and the people, who lined
his passage to the coach, uncovered and in respectful silence paid their
homage, he stopped, looked round, and in a manner at once the most
graceful and most gracious, returned their salutation. It was a look,
set off with such an action, as spoke comfort to the poor, and gave
assurance to all beholders of a kind and noble nature. What sensations
it conveyed to the feeling bosom of the approving Cecilia, is easier to
conceive than to describe: it was not overlooked by Amelia, who beheld
it through her tears, and the interesting glance was not rendered the
less impressive by the tender medium, through which it made its passage
to her heart.

She was leaning on the arm of Mrs. Jennings; conscious that she had no
place in that awful ceremony, she had modestly stood at distance from
those who had; and, it was now for the first time that our hero’s eyes
had been directed towards her. She did not put it in the power of the
chief mourners to offer her a seat in their coach, but carefully avoided
being noticed by them, and walked with Mrs. Jennings from the church to
the house. When there arrived, she did not enter by the hall, but
through the offices, and by a private staircase retired to her chamber,
conducted by the house-keeper.

Cecilia also, after she had paid her respects to the father of the
deceased, repaired to the apartment appointed for her, and dispatched a
servant to Mrs. Jennings and Amelia, requesting the favour of their
company. In a very few minutes the former of these ladies presented
herself, leading by the hand her elegant and lovely charge in deep
mourning, for which Mrs. Jennings took immediate occasion to apologize,
and hoped she should not give offence to any of the family by having so
done. Whilst this was passing, her timid pupil had drawn back, and held
her handkerchief to her eyes at once to hide her tears and her
confusion.

Madam, (said Cecilia in that melodious tone, which charmed all ears) you
have judged correctly right in this particular, as I doubt not but you
have in every other, that has reference to this young lady, who is most
fortunate in being under your protection. Of the propriety of her
wearing mourning there can be no doubt, were it only on account of the
interest she has in Mrs. De Lancaster’s will, where her name will be
found attached to a legacy of two thousand pounds.

Bless me, cried Mrs. Jennings, that is beyond all expectation, and I’m
afraid--

Hold, if you please, said Cecilia (taking Mrs. Jennings by the hand, as
if to apologize for the interruption) and let us sit down, for we keep
this young lady standing, who, if I am not mistaken, has occasion for
repose.--When they were seated, Cecilia proceeded to say, that the
bequest to Miss Jones, which you are pleased to consider as above your
expectation, was only limited, as I have occasion to know, to the sum of
two thousand pounds because the deceased was not possessed of disposable
property sufficient to meet her wishes for making a more ample provision
for the amiable young lady here present; and this, she added, will be
put out of doubt by a particular and very urgent clause in the said
will, in which she recommends and appeals in the most solemn manner to
her son to bear in mind those earnest wishes, which she had imparted to
him, and not forget the promises, which he had made--And now, madam, as
the full purport of this article, which to you may appear mysterious, is
to me and to my nephew also perfectly clear, this amiable young lady may
be assured, that the wishes of the testator in their most extended sense
will be fulfilled by him, to whom they are bequeathed, if Heaven shall
in its mercy grant him life.

If the sensibility of the soul has power without the use of words to
convey its meaning, the look and action, which Amelia now directed to
Cecilia De Lancaster, could not be misunderstood: neither were they,
for that excellent lady, who in that species of eloquence was herself
inferior to none, needed no interpreter, and immediately said--Put
yourself to no exertions, Miss Jones, but withdraw for a time, till you
can recover your spirits, for I readily comprehend both what you feel,
and what you wish to say. If you find yourself disposed to pass a little
time in private, I will undertake for your apology to the company below
stairs.

This said, Amelia rose, made a respectfull obeisance, and withdrew:
Cecilia had given Mrs. Jennings intimation that she wished to be in
private with her, and immediately, resuming her seat, said--That young
lady does you great credit, madam; I declare to you I never yet
contemplated any thing more elegant in manners, or more interesting in
person. I understand she has been some years under your tuition, and as
I am intimately acquainted with Mrs. De Lancaster’s motives for that
anxious attachment to her future fortune, which she manifests in her
will, you will not think me too officious, if I request to be informed
of the plan, which you may have adopted, or in your judgment would
advise, for the further education of this young creature, whose beauty
and attraction at this critical time of life demand no common degree of
care and attention.

Therein, madam, replied Mrs. Jennings, I must refer to better judgment
than my own, and solicit to be ruled by your instruction and advice. I
am a solitary woman, and having no other influence or authority over her
than what her prudence and good will voluntarily concede to me, I must
confess I am not in myself sufficient to encounter every species of
danger, that may possibly occur to alarm me for her sake, and permit me
to add for the sake of one other person also, whom I fear I have too far
offended ever to be forgiven.

If you allude to my nephew, said Cecilia, I beg of you to be explicit.

I own it is to him that I allude, she replied, and as his resentment is
now of so long standing, I have reason to fear I shall never be
forgiven. I confess to you, madam, that when I thought I had discovered
an attachment forming between your nephew and my humble charge, I
considered it as my duty to stop it in its beginning, and prevent their
interviews. This I did, when he last came to my house, and wished to see
Amelia Jones for the purpose of presenting to her a miniature picture
of her father, sent by Mrs. De Lancaster, to which he had added a rich
and elegant chain of gold, which I believe was of his own procuring.
Upon my hesitating to give him immediate admission to Amelia, he left my
house in displeasure, and from that time to this neither myself, nor
Amelia to my knowledge, have either seen him, or been noticed by him in
the slightest degree. If, unfortunately for her, she is involved in an
offence, of which I alone was guilty, you see, madam, how improper it
will be for her, but more especially for me, to remain any longer in
this house, where we must consider ourselves unwelcome to young Mr. De
Lancaster at least, and probably to others, whom I need not name. I
should add, that for Amelia’s sake it behoves us to be gone, as she,
poor child, is distressed by his displeasure to a degree, which, as you
have witnessed, renders her unfit to appear even in your presence, who
are all condescension and benevolence. This being the case, is it for me
to advise what is further to be done for Miss Jones’s education? Am I,
in short, any longer the proper person to conduct it? I humbly conceive
I am not.

To this Cecilia answered--As I draw conclusions from what you have been
stating very different from what you seem to apprehend, I think your
taking Amelia away from us at this time would be the most unadvisable
measure you could adopt and the most irreconcilable to her interest. The
motives, upon which you have hitherto acted towards my nephew, are
certainly very honourable; but you need not pursue them any further; at
least, not with the same degree of rigour. Assure Miss Jones from me,
that she has not the least occasion to be alarmed; let her act as her
own good sense and discretion shall dictate, and I am persuaded you will
not find it necessary to lay any restraint upon her conduct. You will
endeavour therefore to detach her from her solitude and her sorrows as
speedily as you can, and convince her that she will find none but
friends in our circle, regardful of her interests, and anxious for her
happiness.

Mrs. Jennings having made her acknowledgments for these kind assurances,
respectfully withdrew, and hastened to communicate intelligence so
consolatory to her beloved charge, happy to find herself in a great
degree relieved from an anxious responsibility, which had put her upon
assuming a reserve, much more rigid and punctilious than was natural to
her character.




CHAPTER IV.

_Occurrences at Glen Morgan._


In the evening of this very day, after all the melancholy duties
incidental to it had been discharged, John De Lancaster detached himself
from the company, and striking into a gloomy walk of unclipt yew trees,
appertaining to what by courtesy was called the pleasure ground, at the
extremity of it surprised Amelia, solitary and unconscious of his
approach, reposing herself on a seat under the shade of a tree, whose
branches through their openings gave a glimpse of her figure, which
might well have escaped any eyes but those of a lover.

Upon discovering him as he approached, the timid damsel started from her
seat, and was preparing to withdraw, when with that gentle action, which
more resembles intercession than compulsion having induced her to resume
her seat, he said--It has been a long and tedious banishment, to which
your governess condemned me: and since my good fortune has now thrown an
opportunity in my way, which I have ardently wished for, and of which I
may honourably avail myself, don’t think me too importunate, if I
solicit you to give me a hearing whilst I discharge my conscience of a
duty, that I owe to the parent, whom we have this day followed to the
grave. Perhaps Miss Jones, you are not apprised by what solemn
obligations I am bound to consider your honour, interest and happiness
unalienably connected and interwoven with my own. How dear you were to
my departed mother I well know; what I professed to you in our first and
only interview I religiously bear in mind: I have every impression of
your merit, every sensibility of your charms both of mind and person,
that our very short acquaintance could inspire, and by the sacred
solemnity of this day I swear to you, that, if Heaven grants me life, I
will live to your service.

Mr. De Lancaster, she replied, though I cannot at this moment find
expressions for my gratitude, I hope you will believe, that, if I felt
it less, I could express it better. It is indeed a very long time since
you honoured me with your visit, and of course this is the very first
instant I can profit by for returning my most heart-felt thanks for your
invaluable present, which by some misunderstanding on the part of Mrs.
Jennings I have till now unhappily been deprived of doing. As I did not
know that you had been the bearer of that kind present till after you
had left the house, I must not presume to judge of your reasons for
resenting the reception, that you met with from the lady, under whose
care I am; but I may venture to assure you, it was never her intention
to give offence to Mr. De Lancaster, and I must leave it with yourself
to reflect, whether it is consistent with your idea of what is just and
right to harbour a lasting resentment for an unpremeditated trespass.

If you judge me by appearances, Miss Jones, he replied, I may suffer in
your good opinion; but in absenting myself from Mrs. Jennings’s house I
conceive I only acted as every man of honour ought to act towards a
lady, who gave him clearly to understand that his visits were unwelcome.
You may not have been informed that the very first time I waited upon
you at Denbigh she intimated this to me most pointedly by letter, and
when a second time I was not suffered to deliver into your hands what I
had in charge to give you from my mother, judge if I could so
misunderstand either her or myself, as ever to intrude again, and
provoke her to give me a more explicit dismission.

Alas, sir, replied Amelia, how it came to pass, that Mrs. Jennings so
misjudged the case I know not; but that she is incapable of a designed
affront I am perfectly persuaded. You well know the situation, in which
we jointly stand towards the families of De Lancaster and Morgan, which
meet and centre in your single person; and I think you cannot fail to
find good reason on our part, why we should not wilfully fail in respect
towards those, upon whose bounty we subsist.

Ah lovely Amelia, exclaimed the enamoured youth, when you humble
yourself to speak of obligations to my family in these terms, you compel
me to declare to you, that I have no higher ambition at my heart, nor is
there any prouder honour I can aspire to, than to render myself in time
not totally unworthy of a place in your esteem: you must suffer me to
tell you, that such was the impression I received upon the sight of you,
when I was bearer of the token, which the poor soldier was entrusted
with, and so ardent was my desire to avail myself of the introduction,
which my departed mother’s commission for the second time afforded me,
that the unexpected cold reception I encountered from your governess was
such a cutting disappointment, that I could not conquer my ungovernable
temper, and was driven to commit a thousand wild extravagancies, that
upon reflection I am ashamed of: therefore it was, that upon
self-examination discovering my unworthiness, and want of education to
correct my errors, I avoided all society but of my teacher and my books,
and laboured diligently to retrieve the time, that I had lost. How far I
may have succeeded time must show: all I can say for myself is, that I
have not been sparing of my efforts, and if henceforward I may be
favoured with access to you, I shall have an object in my view, whose
approbation, if I can deserve it and obtain it, will be the highest
reward this world can give me, and the one great blessing of my life.

He had, whilst he was addressing her in these emphatic words, taken her
hand in his, and she now for sometime, without attempting to withdraw
it, sate silent, meditative, with her eyes fixt upon the ground, and her
face suffused with blushes.

The terms, in which she had heard herself addressed, were such as could
not be misunderstood; it is natural also to suppose they could not be
unwelcome: they certainly demanded an answer, but how to shape that
answer between the extremes of too much and too little sensibility was
to the modest, unassuming, diffident Amelia an embarassment that her
inexperience was not qualified to surmount. She had however made an
effort to attempt some general acknowledgments, better graced and easier
to be understood by the look and action that accompanied them than by
the language, when the sudden approach of Cecilia in an instant
dispelled both the pleasure and the pain of this unfinished explanation,
and gave her to understand that Mr. De Lancaster had something to impart
to her, and was anxiously expecting the pleasure of her company.

Upon the word she rose, bowed respectful obedience to the summons, and
turned a look upon the party, she was now constrained to leave, so
marked with feeling and so fraught with mind, that our hero must have
been dull indeed had he needed any comment to explain its meaning.




CHAPTER V.

_Our Heroine has an Interview with the Grandfather of our Hero._


When the young and lovely orphan, whom our history will no longer
overlook, was admitted to the presence of the venerable De Lancaster, no
third person being there but the lady who introduced her, she had so far
composed her spirits as to make her first approaches, and receive his
compliments, under no other agitation than what served to set off the
modest graces of her person and deportment to the best advantage: he led
her to a chair, and placed himself by her side. After a pause of some
short continuance, during which he had kept his eyes admiringly upon
her, he turned to Cecilia, and said--I see you were resolved I should
enjoy the pleasure of a surprise, for though you described in part what
I was to expect, your description was far short of the original. I have
seen my brother Morgan’s portrait of Miss Jones’s father, and I can
trace a likeness.

You would do that better, said Cecilia, in a miniature, which perhaps
Amelia has about her.

Amelia answered that she had not the miniature in her possession.

Let it pass, rejoined De Lancaster; we have matter of more moment to
discourse upon. You will understand, Miss Jones, that by the will of the
deceased lady, who had your interest so much at heart, you become
invested with a claim upon us of a twofold nature: the one portion of my
daughter-in-law’s bequest to you is easily satisfied, for it is set
down in the shape of a specific sum; the other and the greater portion,
being undefined, is an obligation, that can never be fairly said to
terminate so long as any thing shall remain undone on the part of my
grandson, which, according to his interpretation of his mother’s wishes,
may seem necessary for your honour and advantage to be further done.
John however is yet under age: on whom then, but on me, during his
minority, does that obligation in its full extent devolve? I acknowledge
it; I embrace it voluntarily; I will execute it religiously. You are my
charge; you are my child, and in trust for my grandson I receive you
into my adoption.

Amelia, half-rising from her seat, and pressing her claspt hands upon
her bosom, bowed her head and wept. De Lancaster proceeded.

How then am I to fulfil this duty. Surely not by deputy, not by
assignment: I must not suffer you to live at distance; you must
discharge yourself as speedily as may be from your residence at Denbigh.
Retain if you see fit, Mrs. Jennings as a friend attached to you, but
look to my Cecilia for those instructions, which are to regulate your
morals, and that example, which is to form your manners. Henceforward I
expect that you will regard Kray Castle as your proper home.

With this benevolent, but authoritative, invitation Mr. De Lancaster
concluded, when Cecilia, rightly conceiving, that a creature, young and
modest as Amelia, might find it difficult to suit her answer to a speech
and speaker of such a style and character, kindly interposed by asking
her in a familiar manner, whether she thought she could pass her time
as much to her content at Kray Castle as at Denbigh.

Ah madam, she replied, I have good reason to be contented with the way
in which I pass my time at Denbigh, but I trust I need not say how much
I feel the honour of being asked to Kray Castle, which of course would
be so high a treat to me. I must acknowledge to you notwithstanding,
that as I know of nothing, that can intitle me to the kindness you are
pleased to show me, I am fearful and alarmed, lest by stepping out of my
obscurity I should be suspected of conceiving myself to be any other
than what I really am, an orphan hitherto supported upon charity, and
now at once provided for in a way, that offers comforts, which my
parents did not possess, and affluence, which they had not to bequeath.

Here the good old man eagerly interposing, turned a kind approving smile
upon Amelia, and said--There is a grace, my good child, in humility,
which well befits your sex, your situation and your time of life; but
don’t be more humble than the descendant of a good and ancient family
ought to be; for the dignity of the stock is not to be degraded by the
eventual sterility of any one of the branches. When we invite you to
partake of the society of our family, you may be sure it is a pleasure,
that we are desirous to enjoy: If you therefore are pleased to consider
our solicitation as a civility, how much more cause have we to set down
your compliance as a favour? I must ever think, that when my guest
brings with him the recommendatory properties of good birth, good
manners, sense and morals, he brings with him into my company what does
me honour, let him be as bare of money as hard fate may make him. You
seem to think that your ambition should be bounded by the specific sum
bequeathed to you in the will of our newly-deceased friend, and rightly
you would think, had nothing else been devised by the testatrix; but as
this is not the case, and as the mother in her will lays further
commands upon the son, don’t suppose, because your moderation may
conceive that much is done, that he will think there is no more to do.

As Mr. De Lancaster was addressing these words to the fair and gentle
creature that was seated by his side, the person, to whom they alluded,
at that instant entered the room. There are lights favourable and
unfavourable, in which every human being will at different times be
seen; this was decidedly one of the happiest moments, which an artist
could have seized for modelling, or a sensitive young damsel for
contemplating, our hero John De Lancaster. As Amelia was rising from her
seat upon his entrance, the address, with which he hastened to replace
her, and the gracefulness of the action, which accomplished it, were in
the very best style of good breeding and politeness, as they were then
understood and practised: as they are now better understood and more
easily practised, no elegant lady would take the trouble to rise, and if
an awkward miss attempted it, no elegant gentleman would be at the pains
to prevent her; ease is the grand desideratum of modern life; and no
one makes a compliment of what every one helps himself to without
ceremony.

The Wilsons, father and son, now joined the company, and whilst they
drew off to the party of the senior De Lancaster, John took his seat
between Amelia and his aunt, being thereunto invited by the latter.

I have been soliciting Miss Jones to pass some time with us at the
castle, said Cecilia.

I am happy to hear it, John replied, and I hope you have prevailed. I
understand you go home to-morrow, and I must deny myself the
gratification of attending upon you, for I feel it indispensably
incumbent upon me to devote some few days to my grandfather Morgan, and
to sundry things, which he wishes to be done in consequence of the
mournful event, that brought us hither; of course so long as I can
afford any consolation to that good and generous heart, which pain and
sorrow conspire to oppress, I must wait till I am released, and in the
mean while pace the solitary yew-tree walk without the hope of again
enjoying that delightful vision, which I once most luckily chanced upon,
but was speedily deprived of. I presume Miss Jones will be of your party
to-morrow.

That must be at her option, Cecilia observed; there will be room in the
coach, as our worthy Colonel stays a few days longer with Mr. Morgan.
Then turning to Amelia, she took her hand, and with a smile, that seemed
prepared to welcome an excuse, said to her in a whisper--How do you
stand disposed, my dear? Will you go with my father and me to-morrow, or
wait a few days till Colonel Wilson and my nephew can attend upon you?

I should naturally be most happy to go when you do, madam, (said Amelia
blushing) but--

Aye, resumed Cecilia, you would like that best no doubt, but what, my
dear? Something stands in the way of it--you are not ready I dare
say--that is it; is it not?

Yes, madam, it is. I have nothing with me here: all my things are at
Denbigh; and I am persuaded Mrs. Jennings will expect me to go with her,
and there will be a good deal to do.

I am persuaded there will be a good deal, repeated Cecilia; about as
much to do, as will fill up your time till the coach shall return for
the colonel and this gentleman, if we could suppose he would prefer it
to his horse, which in fact would be to suppose he would do that which
he has never done yet: our coach and crawling cattle move too slow for
him.

Not in all cases, my dear aunt, believe me--Not in your case, for
instance, unless they were conveying me to you; then they would be slow
indeed--If they were conveying you with me, and were it possible that my
poor company could content you, they could not spin out time, so
pleasantly engaged, too long.

Upon my word, nephew John, that is a very handsome compliment; but you
are seated between two ladies, and I suspect, whilst you were saying it
to one, you intended it for the other.

Excuse me, madam, that was not the case: It would indeed have been
correctly true, had I ventured to have addressed it to the other lady;
but till I can gain her confidence by my conduct, I will not court her
good opinion by my compliments.

As he spake these words, Amelia, struck with the turn he had given to
Cecilia’s raillery, raised her bright eyes, and for the first time
fixing them without a blush steadily upon him, said with an energy, that
seemed to carry her beyond herself--You answer nobly, sir! My father
would have honoured you for that sentiment.

This said, she rose from her seat, and with her rose the company; the
venerable old butler having given notice that the hour was come, when,
according to family custom (then very generally honoured and observed)
they were called upon to offer up their praises and petitions to the
Author of their being, and Dispenser of their blessings.




CHAPTER VI.

_Mr. De Lancaster and Cecilia return to Kray Castle. An Explanation
takes place between Mrs. Jennings and our Hero John; they are
reconciled._


The next morning saw the equipage of De Lancaster bear away the father
and the daughter not with that speed, which the emblem of the expanded
wings might be construed to betoken, but reverently and deliberately
with that slow and easy motion, which neither hurried the passengers out
of their equilibrium, nor the well-fed cattle out of their accustomed
amble, which was specifically neither walk, trot nor stand-still, though
something seemingly allied to each. In fact the gentry of those days had
not found out the necessity of being in a hurry, when they had nothing
to do that called for expedition.

The numberless things, that Amelia had to do at Denbigh when she did not
wish to leave Glen-Morgan, unluckily occurred to Mrs. Jennings, when if
they had slipped her memory, the omission would have been most readily
forgiven; but that provident lady saw so many things needful for herself
and for her charge, that suit was instantly made for the chariot and
horses, and Mrs. Richards the house-keeper was requested to obtain that
order from her master. Mrs. Richards admitted the necessity of a visit
to Denbigh on the part of Mrs. Jennings, for she saw the pressing claims
of crapes and gauzes in their true and proper force, but having probably
discovered in the expressive features of the young Amelia, then standing
beside her, something that to her conception indicated disappointment,
she good-naturedly cried out--Don’t take this dear child from us, just
when she is beginning to get acquainted and make friends with the family
from Kray Castle.

Why surely, said Mrs. Jennings, you forget that the only lady of that
family is gone away this morning, and you would not I suppose think it
proper for Amelia to stay here without me.

I can’t see what should harm her if she did, the dame made answer. My
poor good master and the colonel have either lost their limbs, or lost
the use of limbs, and as for the young folks, when they are happy in
each other, and innocently so, I always think it is a thousand pities to
part them.

Ah Mrs. Richards, it would be a delightful task indeed, if I had only
to provide the means of making my Amelia happy; for her wishes are so
pure and so prudent, that she deserves to be gratified in them; but
circumstanced as she is, and limited as I am, there are many things,
innocent in themselves, that she must not risk, and many mere
appearances that she must avoid. I dare say her own good understanding
convinces her how necessary it often is to sacrifice what is pleasant
for the sake of what is prudent.

Oh yes; I’m perfectly convinced of that, Amelia said and drew a
sigh--Aye, cried the unconverted dame who pleaded on the side that
pleases best, just so would the poor lady, that we buried yesterday,
have said, and just so she did say; she was a slave to appearances; she
sacrificed every thing to what is called prudence, and only lived to be
a melancholy example how much happier and better she would have been
had she taken counsel of her own heart, and not of other people’s
heads--And thus having wound up her climax and her opinion in the same
moment the good dame with that significant jerk and toss of the head,
which is the veriest unequivocal and not to be mistaken stamp of
self-content, faced about and trotted off in quick time to a kind of
march, that to a musical ear would have marked a measure considerably
above _moderato_, and a firmness in the tread characteristic of one, who
walked by authority, and kept right onwards without check or turning.

I perceive, my dear Amelia, said Mrs. Jennings, that if I persist to do
what I consider to be my duty with respect to you, I shall have every
body’s voice against me; but, thank Heaven, you will soon be under the
protection of the lady of Kray Castle, and then my responsibility will
cease.

I trust, replied Amelia, you have not found me impatient to throw off
your government, and till that happens, I hope you will not dismiss me
from your care. Here the dialogue was interrupted by the coming in of
John De Lancaster and the Reverend Mr. Wilson. Mrs. Jennings immediately
availed herself of the opportunity for requesting a few minutes private
conversation with our hero, and, this being granted, she delivered
herself as follows--

I am sensible, Mr. De Lancaster, that I incurred your displeasure by the
manner, in which I received the honour of your visit, when you last
called upon me in Denbigh. Undoubtedly I ought to have presented Amelia
Jones to you without a moment’s hesitation, that you might have given
into her hands the invaluable relick, you had in charge for her. For
this omission I most heartily ask your pardon, and assure you that I had
no intention to offend, but erred in judgment, when in my over-care to
guard Amelia from the effect of any sudden agitation upon the opening of
that pacquet, I very unadvisedly took the delivery of it upon myself.

What you have already said, replied De Lancaster, is apology more than
sufficient for an oversight on your part, especially as it proceeded
from so considerate a motive; but I am afraid, Madam, my abrupt
departure is not so easily to be excused, and I can only say, that if we
are to exchange forgiveness, I shall have much to sue for, and very
little to bestow. However let me hope that Miss Jones has not been
molested by our misunderstanding, but has the miniature, and thinks it,
as it appeared to me, a very admirable painting.

Sir, resumed Mrs. Jennings, I am sorry to say that the error I
committed, in taking the delivery of the present out of your hands, has
very much molested Miss Jones; and the chief reason for my hastening to
Denbigh is, that I may restore to you the pacquet, which is still in my
keeping, in the hope, that you will condescend to fulfil your first
intention, and with your own hands bestow it upon her, who from her
respect for you and for the express conditions attached to your delivery
of it, has scrupulously denied herself even the pleasure of a sight of
it.

You surprize me and delight me, cried our hero in a tone of exultation.
’Tis an instance of so refined and delicate a sense of honour in the
young lady, whom you have educated, as recommends her to my warmest
veneration and esteem. Don’t let me lose an hour, that can be employed
for her relief, and as you tell me that you are hastening home, where
you have the pacquet in your keeping, I will mount my horse and be ready
at your door to hand you out of your carriage, and in your presence, if
such shall be your pleasure, make a transfer of the relick to the lovely
person, who is so properly intitled to it.

Ah sir, cried Mrs. Jennings, you are infinitely kind, and will not only
take a heavy load from off my heart, but give delight to that beloved
child, whose disappointment has been very great.

Say to her then, said John, that I am gone to make myself ready to
attend upon her, for I hear the chariot coming up to the door. Tell her
that it is to her I owe the conscious gratification of being able to say
with truth, I have never disobeyed any one command of my departed
mother, and say moreover that to save her from disappointment and guard
her from danger is another command delivered to me by the same
authority, and intitled to be treated with the same obedience.--But why
do I trouble you with this idle talk? Say nothing to your lovely charge
for me: What have I to do with professions? Let me earn her good opinion
by my actions--Farewell! Your chariot waits.




CHAPTER VII.

_Our Hero accompanies Amelia and Mrs. Jennings to Denbigh. Past Mistakes
are set to rights in a very natural and agreeable Manner._


The fine and valuable horse, which Sir Arthur Floyd and his friends had
so handsomely presented to young John De Lancaster, and in whose noble
veins ran the full blood of the mal-treated massacred Glendowr, was in
constant attendance upon our hero, wherever he went, and no other hero
was in the habit of riding him. When the ladies had set off for Denbigh,
this favourite animal was by John’s order led out to the great hall-door
for him to mount: The beauty of his form, the spirit of his eye and the
elegance of his action having drawn a party of admirers, male and
female about him, the poor old gouty grandfather at the instigation and
by the advice of Madam Richards, whose voice was as an oracle in Glen
Morgan, was wheeled into the hall and drawn out upon the landing-place
before the portal to see his grandson in the saddle. It was indeed a
spectacle well worth a lame man’s trouble to contemplate. The
consciousness, which the fine animal seemed to entertain of his own
dignity, and the sensibility with which he appeared to feel the caresses
of his master, were noticed by the grandfather, who had been a famous
sportsman in his time, and gave him great delight. John put his horse
into graceful action, bowed respectfully to the old gentleman and rode
off.

At about two miles distance from Denbigh he overtook the chariot. The
light and nimble tread of his horse upon the mossy turf gave no notice
of his approach: the ladies were engaged upon an interesting topick, and
his name was on the lips of Amelia in the very moment when he rode up to
the window, and, as it happened, on the side where she was seated: In
the sudden emotion, which the sight of him occasioned, the start she
gave, and the action that accompanied it, covered her with blushes; for
she was conscious of having betrayed more joy and transport on the
occasion than it is required of prudent young ladies to discover when
they meet young men of their acquaintance on the road. Her’s was not the
age however nor yet the nature, that could counterfeit tranquillity and
indifference; so that when her eyes were directed towards him, they gave
him clearly to perceive and know how welcome to her sight he was. He
himself also was too much enraptured with what he contemplated to be
either very able or very eager to help her out of her embarrassment; in
a short time however she had recollected herself quite sufficiently to
be extremely charmed with the beauty of his horse, extremely
apprehensive of his danger when he came too near, and extremely happy
when he came so very close to the window, that her fair hand could reach
not only to caress and fondle that fine animal, but to display its own
fair self to the owner of the animal, who, probably, was not so devoid
of common sense, and incapable of observation, as not to know pretty
nearly what proportion of those endearments were properly addressed to
the horse, what virtually bestowed upon himself.

Upon his arrival at Mrs. Jennings’s house, the reception which John now
met was very unlike what he had before experienced. The cases containing
the miniature picture and the gold chain were delivered to him. Mrs.
Jennings quitted the room, and upon his finding himself alone with
Amelia, he began as follows--

I confess to you, Miss Jones, I feel myself very highly gratified by the
handsome manner, in which you have declined taking this pledge of my
poor mother’s affection and regard for you, till I could have an
opportunity of delivering it into your hands agreeably to her particular
instruction and desire. I am sensible it is a refinement, that very many
people would not feel, but happily for me you did, and the melancholy
event, that has since occurred, naturally makes me the more desirous of
adhering strictly to what she gave me in command: this I now do, when I
have the honour of presenting to you, as a token of her very sincere
esteem, this miniature of your father; what the other case contains is
simply a chain, which I hope you will accept from me, though it has
neither the same intrinsic value as a relick, nor the same ideal value
as a memorial of the donor.

Pardon me, exclaimed Amelia, eagerly interposing, what the other case
contains is a gift not only very beautiful in itself, but infinitely
valuable to me for the giver’s sake.

Oh! that I might believe you, cried the enraptured youth.

Indeed you may, she naturally replied. I prize it as your gift above all
computation.

Nay, now, enchantress, he exclaimed, if your beauty and your kindness
overcome my reason, you must either pardon my transports, or escape out
of my company. To be told that you will prize this trifle, because it is
my gift, is such a favour as can only be repaid by tendering to you my
heart--my life--myself--my every thing--and, saying this, he pressed the
unreluctant damsel to his bosom, accompanying each fond endearing phrase
with tender but respectful delicate caresses.

As soon as he had released her from his arms he led her to a chair, kept
her hand in his, and seated himself by her: she was not in the least
abashed, did not betray any extraordinary agitation, nor studied to
avoid his eyes; for real purity is not suspicious--Amelia, he cried, I
know the sacred nature of the responsibility I have incurred by giving
way to the raptures, which your charms inspired. Your father’s picture
hangs before me; I well remember the apostrophe I made to it; you do not
want the presence of Mrs. Jennings to guarantee my good behaviour; your
very best duenna is my honour. That mother, who is scarcely cold in her
shrowd, with her dying breath bequeathed you to my honour, my protection
and my constant care through life. These are my duties; they are such as
a brother, as a guardian or a father might engage in: I don’t commence
my execution of them after the way of either of these, but, availing
myself of the first favourable opportunity, and snatching at the first
kind expression, which your politeness prompts you to address to me, I
instantly throw my unprivileged arms about your chaste and beauteous
person with all the ardour of a lover--All this is true: I felt that
ardour, and I feel that love--Let me now ask you, Does the declaration
of that love offend you?

Oh, no, no, no.

And may I hope in time to merit a return of love?

You merit it already, and you have it--But hold! restrain yourself.
Don’t make it such a wonder that I speak the truth; but as I have
answered fairly, hear me now in my turn, calmly, patiently, I pray you;
for I verily believe, that upon the candour, with which you shall treat
the sincere confession and appeal I am now about to make to you, the
happiness of my life in future will depend.

Speak freely; I am all attention. I will not deceive you.

What I have said is true: I have full cause to love you: such as you are
in every early excellence of mind and person, it would be out of nature
if I did not. I can well believe it to be against rule for a young girl
like me to make this frank confession: It seems so; and perhaps it was
not quite in rule for me to suffer you to embrace me, whilst you uttered
those emphatic, tender words; I could not help it: you embraced me once
before; I could not help it then. The arms of no man since my father
died ever embraced me, yours alone excepted. The delight, which those
endearments gave me in both cases, I am not ashamed to own; for it was
pure: but I should be sorry to indulge in that delight, however pure,
which cannot be permanent; and would not wish to hear those fond
rapturous words repeated, to which if I affixed a serious meaning, I
must be the vainest and the weakest of all human beings. In one word, my
dear sir, you, who are destined to so high a lot, must show some pity
for a lowly creature that looks up to you with love and admiration, and
must absolutely promise me to fill up your time at Glen Morgan, whilst I
in obedience to Mr. De Lancaster’s commands pay a short visit of respect
at Kray Castle.

If you think that I ought to be at Glen Morgan when you are at Kray
Castle, John replied, I much doubt if I ought to be where I am at this
moment; but why my lovely Amelia should mistrust either her own power,
or my principle, I cannot tell.

You must not disappoint the expectation of your friends; you must not do
what is unbecoming of your situation.

That’s true, my sweet Amelia; that is very true: I must not disgrace
myself by any mean and infamous action: you would not like me if I did
that; would you, Amelia?

Surely not.

I must not, for instance, make vehement protestations to an ingenuous,
honourable, accomplished girl, draw her on to confess that I am not
disagreeable to her, prevail upon her to endure my hypocritical
caresses, and then turn my back upon her, and forsake her; would not
that be scandalous?

It would not be right.

It would be rascally: for suppose I was to say to her thus--because I
abound in money myself, I won’t marry you unless you abound also; what
sort of a reason would that be? Or again, because I am a plain
gentleman, and you are quite as well born as myself, in short, in every
respect my equal, therefore I must seek for something higher--_I must
not disappoint the expectation of my friends; I must not do what is
unbecoming of my situation_--How would that sound? What kind of opinion
would you form of a man, who should act and argue in that way? You would
despise him, Amelia; you would say to him in earnest what you say to me
in jest--Don’t let us meet, if it be possible to avoid it: should I come
to visit your family, take care not to be at home--Ah Amelia, Amelia, if
so you wished to have disposed of me, why did not you contrive to make
your visit to Kray Castle, as my aunt proposed to you, when you knew I
could not be there?

Nay, that is not a fair question, she replied: why do I think these
minutes happier than any I have passed, since last we met in this room
together?--Here the conversation no longer turned upon interrogatories:
it was not of the nature of argumentation or discussion; it would elude
short-hand; for the pauses, when no words were interchanged, were
employed in contemplating the miniature, affixing it to the chain, and
adjusting it to the pearly neck of the fair possessor, which, with other
businesses of not less moment, occupied the thoughts of the parties,
till Mrs. Jennings made her entrance, and announced to John De Lancaster
that a young man, who called himself the son of Ap Rees, the minstrel of
Penruth, was waiting and extremely urgent to be admitted; a wish, that
was immediately complied with.

The agony of the young man’s mind was visible in his countenance. It
was with some difficulty that our hero recognized him; but in the same
moment that he recalled him to his memory, he received him in the
kindest manner, put him at his ease and made him sit down--I saw you
ride into town, said the poor fellow, and I traced you to this house: I
was a long time doubtful about venturing to ask for you; but you have an
excellent character for kindness and benevolence to your inferiors, and
the story of the poor soldier, who died in your house, encouraged me to
believe, that the pity you bestowed upon a traveller and a stranger, you
would not withhold from an ancient Briton and a neighbour: Besides, sir,
I remember when my father Robin Ap Rees performed at Kray Castle, and
sister and I came upon the platform in the great hall with him--Yes,
sure enough, I remember how good you was to my poor Nancy, when shame
overcame her, and she was like to faint--Ah, sir, worse shame has
overcome her now: the direst villain breathing has undone her: she is
crazed; she has attempted her own life; she is dying: that Jew David
Owen is her murderer: but I’ll follow him through the world; he is out
of the law’s reach, but not out of mine: as soon as I have laid poor
Nancy in her grave, I’ll after him across the seas, and when, or
wheresoever I can light upon him, that moment shall be his last.

Stop, friend, said John De Lancaster, you let your passion run away with
you, and don’t know what you are saying. I can guess the injury, that
has been done to your sister, but what are the facts, that so
particularly criminate Sir David Owen? Recite them simply, if you
please; give me nothing but the truth exactly stated; no invective, Mr.
Ap Rees, no aggravation.

Why, you must know, sir, said the appellant, that after the old
baronet’s death father wished for Nancy to go out to service; so there
came a lady to the Abbey to visit Sir David, or Sir David’s mother, I
can’t say which: she seemed to be mightily taken with Nancy, and being a
single lady hired her to be about her person, promising to educate and
take care of her. She seemed a motherly kind of person, sure enough, and
very affable. So when the lady’s own chariot drove up to the door, and
Nancy was told to step into it with her mistress, father thought, and so
did I, that it was a famous thing for his daughter--Alas, a-day! There
is no looking into people’s hearts. Little did we think, that it was
all a deep-laid plot to ruin a poor Innocent.

Proceed with your narrative, John repeated, and don’t digress into
comments and remarks, that, if you want my assistance, only prevent me
from tendering it to you by taking up my time unprofitably, and puzzling
my understanding.

I ask your pardon, sir, Ap Rees replied; I should have gone on to say,
that after two days travelling my sister was set down at a lone cottage,
where she believed herself at a considerable distance from the Abbey,
when in fact the tour she had taken was projected purposely to deceive
her into that persuasion. After a few days passed in perfect solitude
Sir David Owen appeared as a visitor to the lady of the cottage, when
by their joint contrivances, too horrible to relate, they first
succeeded in depriving my unhappy sister of her reason, and then
accomplished their infernal triumph over her innocence. In this state of
mental derangement she was kept for some time, not totally devoid of
short intervals of recollection, in one of which she thinks she saw you,
sir; but probably it was only her fancy, for there is no road, that
could have led you to the house.

I have reason to believe she is not mistaken, John replied! but no
matter. I can now anticipate in some degree the tragic end of your
afflicting narrative. Sir David Owen has left the kingdom, and made no
provision for your sister’s comfort--she is destitute, distracted,
dying--your father is old, blind and broken-hearted, and you are young,
torn with rage, burning for revenge, and perhaps not in a capacity to
furnish those medical and immediate aids, which the pitiable situation
of your suffering sister unintermittingly demands. I take all that upon
myself: I’ll do it instantly without delay: The victim of man’s villainy
shall not want a friend. Nancy Ap Rees, the blushing Innocent, whom I
supported in my arms, and was insulted for my officiousness, shall now,
in the last stage of her distress, and to the last moment of her life,
find my unqualified and full support: therefore lead me to her directly
wheresoever she is--If in town, let us hasten to her on foot; if out of
town, I have horses ready for myself and you--set out at once!




CHAPTER VIII.

_Our Hero visits the Daughter of Robin Ap Rees in her Distress._


As our hero was following Ap Rees to the street door of Mrs. Jennings’s
house, Amelia met him in the passage. I am going with this young man, he
said, upon a matter of business, that may keep me some time--but why are
you alarmed, Amelia? there is no cause for it, I assure you: I only go
to serve a friend--I am satisfied, she replied, I ask no questions;
farewell!

In a poor little tenement, the habitation of a widow-woman, in the
outskirts of the town, young Robin Ap Rees had a lodging room, and in
that room there was a bed, wherein our benevolent young hero
horror-struck beheld an emaciated delirious creature, bound down with
straps; the ruin of a beauteous form; the wreck, which villainy had made
of reason; a modest unsoiled maiden once, whose purity nothing but
poisonous drugs could overthrow; a spectacle to rend the heart of man,
and make an angel weep.

I cannot stand it, John exclaimed. Open the window: give me air, or I
shall sink outright.

A voice was heard, that in a feeble but shrill tone murmured out--I know
you--John had turned away from what he could not bear to look upon; he
now again directed his eyes towards the object, that addressed him, and
burst into an agony of tears.

Can man do this and live, he cried; can Heaven see this, and spare him?

I wish they would not tie me down, the poor creature said. I will be
very quiet, whilst you are with me.

Release her, he exclaimed: she has not strength to hurt herself--They
obeyed him instantly; the brother and the poor woman of the house set
her free: she smiled upon them, and bowed her head in acknowledgment for
the favour. There, there, said John, you see the terror of her looks
subsides: I now discern an emanation of her former self. Nancy, my girl,
compose yourself; be comforted! you say you know me: I am John De
Lancaster, and come to comfort you, to clear your character, to restore
you (with God’s leave) to health and happiness, and to sooth the sorrows
of your father, whom you shall shortly see: again I say, compose
yourself. I am your friend, and will not desert you, nor suffer you to
be ill treated any longer.

God will reward you, she said: God knows my injuries; your generous
nature would be shocked to hear them. If I may see my father and receive
his blessing, I will die content.

You shall see your father: I will send for him directly.

Thank you! ’tis kind in you. I saw you ride by on your horse: I called
after you, but you did not hear me. I am sure they did something to
disorder my brain; it is not possible I could have devised such
sinfulness else; no, no, it is not possible.

Doctor Roberts, (locally so intitled) now entered the chamber; he came
opportunely, for the unhealed gashes on poor Nancy’s arms were bleeding
afresh, and required the skill of a surgeon to stop them. The county of
Denbigh, not then extremely fertile in men of medical celebrity,
decidedly conferred the palm of pre-eminence on Doctor Roberts, and, in
addition to the character of ability in his profession, he had, and
merited to have, universal credit for benevolence and humanity: not to
the diseased alone, but also to the distressed, his help was ready, and
his hand was open.

He had attended on this piteous object at the suit of her unhappy
brother; he had staunched the bleeding of her self-inflicted wounds, and
had found it necessary to prescribe coercion, and to tie down her hands.
An idea that her blood was poisoned had impressed her with the
persuasion that to let it out was an act of duty, and the instant that
she found her hands at liberty, she employed them in that office. The
Doctor now stopped the bleeding, and provided against a repetition of
it. When this was done, he attended to the anxious enquiries of John De
Lancaster, with whose character and connections he was perfectly well
acquainted. It was his opinion that the patient could not survive above
two days: her pulse indicated approaching dissolution; nature was
exhausted; the whole mass of her blood was broken; in fact it was
absolutely poisoned by the inordinate infusion of pernicious stimulants,
which had been insidiously administered in her diet and her drink for
the most abominable purposes: of this he was convinced not only by her
own evidence, but by symptomatic proofs, in which he could not be
mistaken; in short he was certain, that when her death took place a jury
of surgeons upon opening the body would confirm the fact, and this of
course he recommended as a measure due to justice.

With the same view he advised that her deposition should be taken
without loss of time in a legal manner, which he believed her competent
to give, especially now that the loss of blood had cleared her
intellect, though at the same time it might conspire to hasten her
dissolution.

In conformity to this advice measures were immediately taken, and David
Williams was dispatched to Kray Castle with the following letter from
John to his grand-father.

             “Most dear and honoured sir,

     “I have been present at a scene of the most afflicting nature:
     Nancy Ap Rees, the daughter of blind Robin, is dying in consequence
     of practices too horrible to be described, that have been employed
     against her for purposes the most diabolical. When you call to mind
     the wretch, who has lately disappeared, it will spare me the pain
     of committing his detestable name to the same paper, that is graced
     with your’s, and signed with mine.

     “Alas, my beloved grand-father, how deeply do I regret that it
     should have been my lot so early in life, and for so long a portion
     of it, to have been in any degree implicated with a miscreant, who,
     after being convicted of the most disgraceful and unmanly conduct
     in various instances, has by gradations in cruelty proceeded to the
     extreme of all atrocity, and effected the violation of an innocent
     and virtuous girl by means, that amount, as I conceive, to actual
     murder.

     “As the brother of this unhappy victim now on her death-bed, and by
     intervals only possessed of her reason, has resorted to me in his
     distress, how could I, a descendant of the De Lancasters and
     grandson of the best and most benevolent of mankind, have been
     worthy of my name, had I shrunk from the duties of humanity,
     however irksome it may be to me, that any part of the trouble,
     which ought to be all my own, should devolve upon you, without whom
     I am nothing.

     “The first thing I require of you is to send me over money, fully
     sufficient to satisfy in a liberal manner all incidental expences
     attending the care of this poor creature, whilst she has life; to
     provide for the interment of her remains after death, and the
     effectual prosecution of the wretch, and his accomplice or
     accomplices, who to the crime of violation have added that of
     poisoning her pure blood with drugs of the most inflammatory and
     deadly nature.

     “By my servant David Williams, who is the bearer of this, you will
     immediately send me over one hundred pounds, and as the presence of
     old Robin Ap Rees is earnestly expected by his dying child, you
     will be pleased to give order for his safe and speedy conveyance
     under care of some one of your household, who will prudently
     prepare him for the meeting, happy in this one instance, that his
     sight at least cannot be shocked by the sad and piteous spectacle,
     that would else have awaited him.

     “With these requisitions convinced that your benignant candour will
     comply, I remain with all true devotion, &c. &c.

                                         “JOHN DE LANCASTER.”

Whilst John withdrew to write this letter Doctor Roberts had been
wholly occupied in his endeavours to keep life in his patient, who by
successive faintings now sunk so fast, that De Lancaster only came back
in time to see her eyes close for ever.

It was now so evident that the deceased had by her own act brought on
immediate dissolution, that it became a doubt with Doctor Roberts,
whether any satisfactory proofs could be adduced of her having died
precisely by poisonous drugs, inasmuch as it was not possible for him to
depose upon oath, though in opinion he was persuaded, that it was not in
the power of medicine to have saved her, had she abstained from all
self-violence.

Of the particular means used for the imposing those pernicious drugs
upon her there was no such specification, as could be producible
evidence in a court of justice; for no words had been taken down from
the mouth of the deceased, and the fact of her insanity being
incontrovertible, very little credit would be legally attached to the
wanderings of a suicide, known to have been deprived of her reason: it
was therefore judged advisable to waive the process, that had been in
meditation, and not expose her miserable remains to an operation, which
even John revolted from, whilst her brother in the most earnest manner
besought them to dispense with it.

In these resolutions and opinions the debating parties were the more
confirmed by the following letter, which young Williams brought with him
on his return from Kray Castle--

“Your conduct, my beloved grandson, has my unqualified approbation, and
your commands are punctually fulfilled. David Williams brings the sum
you call for, and Ben my groom, a discreet and steady man, has
instructions for the safe conveyance of Robin Ap Rees from Penruth Abbey
to you at Denbigh.

“I am no lawyer, but it is clear to me, that if the drugs, which have
been given with evil intent, can be proved to have been the actual, sole
and immediate cause of death, it is a positive murder: if on the
contrary it be true, as stated by your messenger, that the poor
distracted creature was driven by desperation to the fatal act of
opening her own veins, the case becomes more than doubtful, provided it
shall turn out upon evidence, that her death has been accelerated
thereby; for who is to say that life is not to be saved, though a
physician may despair of it? Neither is it to be supposed, that the mild
spirit of our laws will be so interpreted by judge and jury upon a trial
for life, that out of two possible constructions that in preference
shall be proceeded upon, which bears hardest against the prisoner at the
bar.

“I would have you therefore be extremely guarded in your investigation
of this intricate and complicated case, and take especial care to give
no handle to a censorious world to insinuate that you are actuated by a
prejudiced and hostile mind in consequence of what has passed between
you and the person, upon whom the charge will bear, if it is seriously
brought forward: recollect withal that the _good Samaritan_ contented
himself with relieving the man, who had fallen amongst thieves, but did
not busy himself either in the pursuit, or use means for the detection
of them.

“I am entirely with you in your just abhorrence of those direful
practices, that have effected the ruin, and probably the death, of the
much-injured object, in whose cause you honourably stand forth; but
temper your benevolence with caution, and remember that on your life
depends all that is valuable in this world to

CENTER
“Your affectionate
“ROBERT DE LANCASTER.”




CHAPTER IX.


_Proceedings at Denbigh in consequence of the Death of Ap Rees’s
Daughter. Our Hero retires to Glen Morgan. The Address of the blind
Minstrel of Penruth to the People concludes the Volume._


Upon the arrival of old Robin Ap Rees in the forenoon of the day
succeeding that, in which his daughter died, he required to be led to
the chamber, where her corpse was laid out. There had been some stir in
the town about the manner of her death, for the story had in part got
abroad, and the name of Sir David Owen began to be circulated with such
comments, as seemed to indicate a propensity in the town’s-folk to take
the cause into their own hands, and administer tumultuous justice in
their own mob-way.

This was by all means to be avoided, and when it was understood that old
Robin meant to be present at the funeral of his daughter, it was judged
highly expedient that he should be cautioned and prevailed upon to
employ his influence for the purpose not of aggravating, but allaying,
the dangerous indignation of the inhabitants; for Robin Ap Rees was a
popular character, and not meanly endowed with that species of
eloquence, which is competent to disturb or to preserve the peace of the
community.

It was also thought advisable, that our hero John De Lancaster, whose
good deeds every tongue had trumpeted, should withdraw himself from the
spot, where commotion was apprehended: this without difficulty he was
persuaded to do; his grandfather’s letter favouring that measure: he
accordingly set out with Mrs. Jennings and Amelia for Glen Morgan,
having committed every thing, in which he had concern, to the conduct
and discretion of his excellent friend and preceptor Mr. Wilson, who had
come over most opportunely for all parties on this critical occasion.

Whilst all affairs, that prudence could provide for, were going on at
Denbigh under the management of the wise divine and worthy doctor, John
in the retired and shady walks of Glen Morgan was enjoying the society
of his beloved Amelia, and listening to the praises she bestowed upon
him.

I could wish, he said to her as they were sauntering under the
yew-trees, that you would not be so ingenious in describing actions
better than they are: they can only be appreciated according to the
worthiness of the motives, that have inspired them. You will allow, that
where money is laid out without inconvenience or regret, pecuniary
donations require but little effort, and of course imply but little
merit. If I give so secretly that no one can discover me, it is plain I
take a secret pleasure in the act of giving; but if I know that my
munificence, or my active services, can purchase the approbation of an
angel, that will bless and praise me for the deed, what does it prove
but that I have been industrious to obtain a reward, that is worthy of
my pains, and can only claim the credit of having found out something,
that is better than money, and more gratifying than indolence? How then
can you be perfectly assured that I did not exert myself in the case of
poor Nancy Ap Rees from the desire, which I must naturally have, of
recommending myself to you?

Whilst conversation of this sort was carried on in shady walks and
groves propitious to the cause of love, the seniors of the family, lame
Morgan and lame Wilson, who mustered only one effective leg between
them, kept house, and whil’d away the lagging hours partly in talk, and
partly in such humble resources as human nature is fain to resort to,
when age and decrepitude conspire to narrow our enjoyments, and,
shutting out all hope of future pleasure, confine us to the recollection
only of the past.

When you and I, said Morgan, were as young as my grandson John, I am
afraid, friend Wilson, we were neither of us altogether as worthy or as
wise. I can answer for one; and when our acquaintance commenced as
brother ensigns in Barrel’s regiment, I doubt we were not quite such
sturdy champions in the cause of virtue, as he now is, or as we ought
then to have been. I recollect when you turned out for me as second in
my affair with Cornet Flanagan, it was a foolish quarrel for a very
worthless cause; but no matter! those days are over and we are now old
fellows. You held on in the army, performed honourable service, received
honourable wounds and are at length laid up with an honourable, though
in my opinion not a very adequate, compensation: I quitted upon the
peace; came into possession of an ample property, led an idle, useless
and luxurious life, made my neighbours welcome, and kept the bottle
moving till the gout laid hold of me, and I could not move myself. What
a sorry figure in the calendar of antient British worthies shall I make?
A mere man of straw, without one ear of corn, save only a few grains of
good will in a bye-corner of my heart for an old friend like you, and
perhaps here and there for another of like honest nature with
yourself.--And now, Wilson, listen to me.--When I talk of my affairs my
steward has just now satisfied me, that I am confoundedly given to
involuntary lying; for I am considerably richer than I have believed or
represented myself to be.--John will have my land and house and all that
he can find about it, but, by the L--d, I won’t leave him a shilling of
my ready money. He won’t want it and others will--You for instance: you
have a son in the army, a son in the church, and I know you don’t
abound: you have a small invalided government, and a small patrimonial
lot of barren land--What then? I have left you a bit of money in my
will: ’tis true I shan’t keep it from you long at all events, for I am
brushing off after my poor daughter: give me the pleasure, brother
soldier, before I die, of telling me in what way a moderate sum can be
of service to you.

The tear that stood on Wilson’s manly cheek when it became his turn to
make reply, witnessed his grateful feelings for the good old man--Live
only, my dear sir, he said, live and be happy as your benevolence can
make you; I ask no more, and nothing can I receive beyond the sincere
gratification it now affords me to find myself thus honoured in your
friendship, and assured of your esteem.

Well, well! I know you for a sturdy soldier, the old gentleman replied;
so take your course: ’tis not the first time you have served me thus.
Perhaps ’tis natural to a mind like your’s to find that kind of
arrogance in money, which establishes a sort of patronage in the giver,
not quite consistent with your sense of independant friendship; and if
such be your construction of the case, wait, my good fellow, till the
time shall come, when I can have no use for what I bestow, and you no
longer any motive for declining to receive it--

    Death shall soon furnish that conclusive plea,
    Which ends the contest betwixt you and me.

Whilst time passed in this manner at Glen Morgan the interment of poor
Nancy Ap Rees, as regulated by the Reverend Mr. Wilson, took place at
Denbigh. A great concourse of people assembled; the whole corps of
harpers from all the neighbouring parts attended in honour of their
illustrious compatriot, and formed themselves in his train as he
followed the bearers of the coffin, led by his son. The minstrels of
Kray Castle and Glen Morgan, in their professional habits, and
distinguishable by the attributes of their respective patrons, both men
of eminence in their art and favourites of the muse, were present and
attracted general notice and respect.

As it was known that the venerable father of the deceased purposed to
speak to the people after the solemn service was concluded, the body was
no sooner committed to the earth than the crowd formed themselves into a
circle, of which he became the centre, and, having passed the word for
silence, heard themselves addressed, as follows.

Friends and my countrymen!--A dark old man, whose eyes no ray of light
hath visited these threescore years, stands here beside the grave of his
new-buried child, and wishes you to hear with patience a few plain and
pacifying words, to which, amidst the sorrows of his heart, he feels
himself in conscience bound to pray you for your own sakes to attend.

My station in the family of the deceased Sir Owen Ap Owen is well known
to all: from my youth up I have fulfilled the duties of his household
minstrel, and though it becomes me to speak modestly of my services, let
me hope they have been such, as do not disgrace the patronage of that
worthy master and his ancient venerable house. In the course of my
servitude having taken to wife a daughter of the celebrated Owen Gwynn,
whose name yet lives amongst us, I became the father of two children,
the elder of whom, a son, stands now at my side, the sharer of my
sorrows and the staff of my declining age: the younger, a daughter dear
to my sad heart as the blood that visits it, lies low at my feet in the
narrow chamber, whither we must all repair.

Friends, I beseech you, move me not to unfold the dreadful dealings,
that conspired the death of this most innocent and much injured child.
Be satisfied to know her wrongs are not within the reach of human
justice; God will avenge them; God will not permit the violator to
escape unpunished. Why should I name him? he is not of us; he was not
born of unmixed British blood! he is gone, self-banished, fled, and
never will he dare to return amongst us, and abide the perilous
inquisition, that awaits him.

Be patient therefore, my dear countrymen! stir not a hand in my redress,
and reverence the tombs of Penruth Abbey, where sleep the fathers and
the heroes of your ancient race: account yourselves rather so far
fortunate as you are henceforth rescued from a wretch without humanity,
an alien to your nation, one who respects no laws divine or human, so
void of honour, so abandoned of all virtue, so surrendered to all
villainy, that, when the purity of my child repulsed his guilty passion,
he scrupled not to make her mind a ruin, and levelled the defences of
her reason in order to accomplish the destruction of her innocence--And
now, my friends, you, who are fathers, will dismiss your fears; he, that
has destroyed my peace, cannot harm you--_My_ daughter dies, that
_your’s_ may be in safety.

Here I should end, for he, of whom you all expect to hear, seeks not the
praise of men, and modestly requires me to conceal the wondrous
bounties, he has heaped upon me: but I cannot obey him; I will speak his
praise, and in the ears of this assembly declare aloud, that to the
charity of John, the young De Lancaster, sole heir of his paternal and
maternal houses, I owe as much as man can owe to man--a grave for my
child, a patron for my cause and an asylum for my age--Heaven’s best of
blessings light upon his heart!--I have said.”


END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Harding and Wright, Printers, St. John’s Square.


Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

it to be stoped=> it to be stopped {pg 13}

and Mrs. De Lancastar=> and Mrs. De Lancaster {pg 15}

that I coudn’t get=> that I couldn’t get {pg 97}

these addresed him=> these addressed him {pg 118}

you are two subtle=> you are too subtle {pg 123}

advisable to wave the=> advisable to waive the {pg 275}

all villiany=> all villainy {pg 291}





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