John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. II.

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—

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—

CHAPTER II.

The Mother of our Hero dies.

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.