John de Lancaster: a novel; vol. III.

It might now be most truly said that the good old chief of the family at Kray Castle was surrounded by a groupe of happy subjects, all loyal, free and affectionate, all witnessing his benevolence, regaling themselves in the sunshine of his smile and sharing the enjoyments of his hospitable board: his cooks seemed perfectly persuaded that spits were made to turn, whilst his cellerman probably forgot that the property of a spigot was to stop a barrel. Scarce a day passed, which was not marked by the attention of his neighbouring friends; Sir Arthur Floyd and the new allies were frequent in their visits, for they had a passionate affection for our hero, and whilst their eyes dwelt with approving pleasure on the fair Amelia, they destined him to her arms, and paid her their devoirs as to a bride elect.

Mrs. Jennings, respited from all the anxious responsibility of a governess, seemed to retain nothing but that unalterable affection for her beloved charge, which was natural to her, and began to think of retiring to her independence at Denbigh—I see you now, my dear Amelia, she said, firmly seated in the hearts of this liberal and benignant family, adopted by the excellent Cecilia, and favoured beyond all my hopes by the venerable De Lancaster; and what more have I to do but to lay down my cares, and rejoice in your good fortune? I have to the best of my power fulfilled the promise, that I made to your dear father, whose conscious spirit, now in bliss, looks down upon you; my prayers for your happiness, and for the life of him, on whom your happiness depends, will for the remnant of my days be fervently put up to that Almighty Power, whose attribute is mercy. Go on, my child, in the right course, in which I strove to train you, and from which you never yet have strayed. Cultivate Cecilia: Guard your young heart against the dangerous allurements of sudden elevation, and that unlooked-for prosperity, which is at hand to put your constancy, your piety, your humility to the test. Mean, low-born persons are too apt to turn giddy on the wheel of fortune, when it lifts them from the dirt; but recollect, that in hereditary rank and dignity your pretensions are as high as those of the De Lancasters and Morgans, who in riches, not in ancestry, have an advantage over you, and riches only, as you well know, constitute no actual superiority. Let your humility therefore, though in itself one of the most recommendatory qualities you can possess, be that gentle virtue, which your religion dictates, but never let it sink below the mark, at which true conscious honour has a right to stand.

Cecilia’s lessons, not less edifying, were of another cast; for every word, that fell from her lips, was tinctured with a suavity and grace peculiar to her elegance of character. When she addressed her admonitions to the heart, their object was to inspire it with benevolence, with charity, with resignation and that christian lowliness, which whilst on earth it sinks, secures its happiest surest flight to Heaven. To these Amelia listened with delight; on these she formed herself, and, happily for her, whilst she received the precept, she beheld the example, that confirmed it. Every day gave her new graces, till the charms of beauty were but as ornaments, whose only use is to set off the lustre of the real gem.

As for the grand-father of her beloved, it was something curious to remark how soon she found a strenuous advocate in him. When he descanted she was all attention; nothing could draw her from him. He would say, Amelia listens to me with good sense and apprehension: There is a marked discernment in her silence, that is more pleasing, aye, and more eloquent than all the studied praise that flattery can suggest—I have been thinking, he said one day, as they were sitting in their family circle, I have been thinking, John, that if I live to see the day when you shall be of age, how perfectly it would complete and crown my felicity, would you take it into your gallant mind to make me a present on that joyful occasion. I would have you think it is not a trifle, that will satisfy me. It must be a measure of your esteem for me, and a full satisfaction, recompence and return for all the love, the care, the fond anxiety, that you have merited and I bestowed. Look around, and tell me if you guess my meaning.

John had not far to look, for Amelia sate beside him struggling to conceal her consciousness of the allusion, and dreading to hear that, which would have given her such delight to have overheard without the confusion of being present. In this instant, most opportunely for her rescue, whilst all her efforts could not prevent her blushes from betraying her, the harp of David Williams sounded in the hall, and she exclaimed above her usual pitch—Oh, what a charming strain.

Bid him come in, said the old gentleman, addressing himself to his grandson, and if the muse has visited her votary, perhaps she will supply him with words to that strain, which our dear Amelia seems to be so pleased with—David has a quick invention when his wits are well warmed with his favourite metheglin.

The minstrel entered and was led to a seat in the corner of the room, at the farthest distance from the company assembled. Having lightly sounded the strings of his harp to prove if they were in perfect tune, he asked if the young stranger lady was in the room.

Mr. De Lancaster told him that Miss Amelia Jones was present, and had expressed herself much pleased with the melody, which he had been rehearsing in the hall: Could he play it over to them again?

Perhaps not quite the same: He would attempt something as like it as he could recollect, he hoped it would be not much worse, but he doubted if it would be exactly the same.

David, said De Lancaster again, you have enquired if Miss Jones is present; I have told you that she is, and if you could see her, and be satisfied how fair a lady you are invited to address, your muse, inspired by her beauty, would be propitious, and mere melody would not be all, that we should hear from you.

Roused by this challenge to his genius, the blind old bard spread his hands upon the harp, and having rested his forehead on the frame of it for a very few minutes, after an appropriate prelude, extemporaneously broke forth as follows.

CHAPTER VI.

Devereux arrives at Kray Castle.

When David Williams had concluded his lay and retired, Mr. De Lancaster gravely observed, that in ancient times prophecies and prayers and even laws were delivered in verse; then, turning to his grandson, he said, Let David’s vision be realized on the day that you are of age, and you and I, John, shall be two of the happiest of human beings—

Here he was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who brought a letter; it was that, which Philip had sent by young Devereux as his introduction to the hospitalities of Kray Castle. A servant was dispatched by Devereux with it as he entered the park, and the old gentleman had barely time to read it to his family circle when the porter’s bell announced an arrival. John hastened to the hall door, as Devereux in his travelling equipage drove up, and received him with that natural cordiality, which, assuring him of his welcome, might be said to constitute friendship at first sight. When he presented him to his father, the good man had entered the hall, and, taking him by the hand, said—I have read the letter, Mr. Devereux, which you bring me from my son, and am proud of the honour you confer upon me. I beg you will consider this house as your own, and the longer stay you shall think fit to make in it, the happier we shall be. I know your noble family full well, and respect every branch of it. He then said aloud to his servants—See that proper care be taken of every thing belonging to Mr. Devereux, and be sure you let his people want for nothing: they are strangers to this country.

During the ceremony of introducing him to Cecilia and the rest of the family, in which Mr. De Lancaster was somewhat precise, young Devereux acquitted himself as a gentleman familiar with good company, gracefully and without embarrassment: in his person he was light and elegant, and in his countenance there was great expression, though not perfect symmetry of features: there was a quickness of intellect and of spirit in his eyes, that nobody could mistake.

He was speedily at his ease, and in answer to Mr. De Lancaster’s enquiries said, that he had been extremely lucky in a good passage by the pacquet, and not less so in his journey since his landing. He expressed himself highly pleased in the opportunity he now had of visiting his native country, for he was born and bred in Herefordshire, where his father had an hereditary property, and it was part of his business in England to look into the affairs of that estate.

To Cecilia’s question about her brother’s health he replied, that Mr. De Lancaster had received some slight hurt in the ship, that brought him over, and when he visited him at Buenos Ayres, had his leg upon a chair; but added with a smile that he believed he rested it merely from habit, as he observed, that he had the perfect use of it, whenever he had occasion to employ it.

That is so like him, said De Lancaster to Colonel Wilson—Aye, replied the colonel, I would not change my wooden leg for both his, if I made no better use of them than he does.

Is my father coming over, said young De Lancaster?

I believe not yet. He has friends at Cintra, and ’tis likely he may pass the winter there.

I hope, Mr. Devereux, the old gentleman observed, my son has the honour of being known to your father, and that it is in his family he forms his friendships.

I have no doubt it will be so, Devereux replied; but at present Mr. De Lancaster has formed no connexions but with a lady and gentleman, who I believe are neighbours of your’s, when they are at home. If I rightly understand Sir David Ap Owen, who is the gentleman I allude to, he has a considerable property in this county, and a handsome seat not far from hence.

Sir David Owen has a very antient and respectable station in this near neighbourhood, called Penruth Abbey, and a very considerable property in land about it. The lately deceased Sir Owen ap Owen was a worthy gentleman, lived hospitably, and was respected by his countrymen and neighbours: he was truly of a very antient stock, and I had the happiness to consider him as my particular and very good friend. Penruth Abbey is well worth your seeing, and if you have a wish to ride over, my servants shall attend upon you. I am sorry to say, that between our houses, since Sir Owen’s death, all intercourse is at an end.

Devereux bowed, and on that subject said no more. The conversation then took a general turn, till supper was served up by the orange-tawney liverymen in great feudal state, and Devereux, to whom these specimens of antient manners were extremely interesting, was in due time and order ushered to an excellent apartment, by Cecilia’s direction elegantly set out and provided with every thing, that was appropriate to his comfort and repose.

The next morning, after breakfast, he signified to John that he wished to have a few minutes in private with him. In a rustic building at the end of a walk, that winded though the ornamented ground, he delivered to our young hero the letter he was secretly encharged with from poor Philip—When he had read the letter, John said, there is matter in this letter, that concerns me nearly, and affects me deeply. Are the contents, so far as they relate to my father’s situation with the widow Ap Owen, known to you?

In some degree Devereux confessed they were not unknown to him. He had been informed by Sir David that Mr. De Lancaster had entered into an engagement for marrying that lady.

I would go to the farthest foot of land on the globe of earth, said John, to save him from that fatal, that disgraceful, that detestable connection. Rather would I see my father dead and in his coffin, nay, rather would I die myself, than see him married to that odious, that felonious woman.

You astonish me, cried Devereux; she must artfully have concealed her character from me, if it merits to be so described, which I must not presume to doubt of. And now, Mr. De Lancaster, since you have so far trusted to me by committing yourself to expressions of such abhorrence with respect to that lady’s character, I will, with your permission, confide to you the situation, in which I stand towards her son—Sir David Ap Owen has made proposals of marriage with my sister—(John started, and betrayed considerable agitation)—Yes sir, he has offered himself to my father, and it is solely upon that account I am come over to assure myself of particulars as stated by Sir David, touching the character, which he bears in his county, the family he is of, and the fortune he possesses. Now my father conceives, though for the present he is engaged in contracts as a trader, yet that he is intitled both by birth and property to be perfectly secured from any misrepresentation whatsoever, and I must freely confess we think there is some mystery about Sir David, and cannot divine his motive for deserting a fine place and property, so newly devolved upon him, and coming to Lisbon of all places in the world, unless upon the plea of health, which by no means seems to be the case either with his mother or himself. His pretensions, as he states them, are such as my father cannot reasonably oppose, and it does not appear, if we were satisfied as to all essential points of character and general conduct, that Sir David Ap Owen would be unacceptable to my sister, who, I must take the liberty to say, is qualified to look quite as high, as to this gentleman, who addresses her; and, having no flaw in her pretensions, has a right to expect that none such shall be found in his. In this predicament I stand, protector of a sister’s honour, and responsible for her happiness, which I am sure you will allow to be a serious and a sacred trust. If therefore you could bring your mind to put that repose in my honour, which, if you knew me better, I flatter myself you would not withhold, and would speak to me as friend to friend respecting this connection, you would confer the greatest favour possible on me and mine.

Sir, replied the gallant youth, (touched to the heart by the appeal now made to him, which brought to his recollection poor Ap Rees’s case) I have no doubt of your honour, and as I am determined to go over to the rescue of my father from his dangerous situation, you shall in the mean time hear nothing from me, or in my company, relative to Sir David, which I will not be ready to avouch in presence of your father to Sir David’s face, if you can bring him to the meeting. However, sir, as there are certain restrictions, which bear with extreme force upon me, and do not affect others equally able to satisfy your enquiries, I will instantly conduct you, if you have no objection to lengthen your walk, to a place, where every thing shall be made known to you by one, whose veracity cannot be questioned.

CHAPTER VII.

John De Lancaster and Devereux visit the Minstrel Ap Rees.

The information he could gain from Devereux did not in all points satisfy his curiosity; for Sir David Ap Owen had said nothing to him of the menaces he employed for obtaining the bond, and with Philip he had had but one interview, which disclosed still less of what John wanted to be explained than the letter, which he had been reading.

As they went on their way discoursing, the cottage of Ap Rees in all its rural loveliness caught the eyes of Devereux, and caused him to break forth in rapturous admiration of it—We are going thither, said our hero. That is the habitation of the minstrel Ap Rees, who from his childhood has been domesticated in the Ap Owen family, and is, as you will soon discover, a person of no ordinary talents; and although now old and blind, and (which is worse than both) broken-hearted by misfortunes, yet is he second to none that our country has to boast of, either as harmonist or bard.

Alas! said Devereux, old and blind and full of sorrows, with feelings yet alive to every pang they give him, what accumulated misery must his be! Heavy enough, I should conceive, must be his loss, who cannot see the beauties of this lovely spot, nor gratify his senses with the scenery, that nature in the wantonness of her luxuriance spreads around him. But doubtless it is to the bounty of the heir of the Ap Owens, that he owes these comforts, this asylum for old age to rest in, till Providence shall graciously be pleased to terminate his sorrows, and close those eyes in death, that are already merged in darkness and despair.

’Tis natural, John replied, that you should so conjecture: but no Ap Owen gave him that asylum.

To whom then does he owe it?

No answer was given to this question; and now the notes of the harp, accompanied by the voice, caused them to stop and listen at the wicket of the little plat of grass, that for a few yards ran sloping down from the cottage. The harmony was of the most pathetic, sad and solemn cast, delicately touched by the hand of the master, but of the words they could distinguish few, expect that by a passage more strongly given out than the rest, they concluded it to be the lamentation of a father at the funeral of his child.

He ceased and all was silent in the house—’Tis exquisite, said Devereux; but pray don’t ask him to repeat it. I should not like to see him, and to hear him at the same time—John walked up to the house-door, opened it gently, and entered the room, followed by Devereux.

The old man had replaced himself in his elbow chair; his son Robert had put away his harp, and in a corner of the room apart sate a young woman, who held her white apron to her eyes, and appeared to be weeping.

As soon as Robert announced Mr. John De Lancaster Ap Rees rose from his seat, and with his claspt hands pressed upon his bosom, bowed his head and exclaimed—The Providence of Heaven be with you, my most honoured benefactor! Are you come to visit your poor beadsman? Oh, that I could see you! With the benevolence of an angel in your heart I am sure you must have the divinity of an angel in your countenance.

Robin, said the youth, do not address me in those terms. Call me your friend; for such I really am. The gratification I receive in giving comfort to a man like you, if indeed you are comforted, is full repayment; I deserve no praise. Now tell me sincerely; what is there besides that I can do to put you at your ease?

Nothing is wanting, he replied: Man can do no more for man than you have done for me. I have my son yet left; thanks to your bounteous goodness for the blessing! she in the corner, Sally Gwynne by name, a kinswoman of my late wife, is a good girl and waits upon me kindly: she was the beloved friend of my poor Nancy, and has been much affected by my mournful dirge: I did not know it, else I would have stopped. But sure I hear the footsteps of another in the room.

Your ear is correct, said De Lancaster. It is Mr. Devereux, a friend of mine. He listened to your dirge with great attention. I would not have you to repeat it, but let him know the purport. Tell that young woman to withdraw—And now I am about to put a melancholy task upon you, but it much concerns me, that this gentleman, newly arrived from Lisbon, should hear you briefly, truly and distinctly relate the manner of your daughter’s death.

Where is the gentleman?

He stands before you.

Sir, I call Heaven to witness that my child was murdered. Her vital functions were destroyed and poisoned by drugs of an inflammatory and deadly property, which, rendering her insane, drove her to suicide, and so brought on a death of double horror. This is no longer circumstance, but proof: The inspection of the corpse, the deposition of the surgeons, and, above all, the confession of the accomplice, bring it home to the criminal, and would convict him of murder, could he be brought to trial.

What prevents it? Devereux demanded with voice and look so horrow-struck, as seemed to indicate suspicion of the issue.

His flight prevents it: his accusing conscience, which haunts him with the dreadful recollection, that my poor Innocent, my virtuous child withstood his gross desires, till to effect his brutal purposes he villainously contrived to deprive her of her senses, and to the crime of murder added that of violation.

Name the villain, Devereux exclaimed.

The minstrel rose from his seat, and, laying his hand upon his heart, in a firm tone replied—David Ap Owen—my dead patron’s heir; and Heaven so judge me as I speak the truth!

Enough! said Devereux. I set off to-morrow.

CHAPTER VIII.

John De Lancaster confers with his Grandfather upon the Purport of the Letter, he had received from Lisbon.

When Devereux had taken his departure from the cottage of the Minstrel, following the steps of De Lancaster, as he led the way towards Kray Castle, after long silence and much meditation, he thus addressed his companion—The insult, which this outlawed villain has put upon my family by audaciously attempting to ensnare my sister, calls on me to expose him in the most public manner, and he shall not escape the disgrace he merits. My presence will be required without delay, and as I can now see full cause why you should be as deeply interested to rescue your father from his engagement as I am to save my sister from all chance of so horrible a connection, what prevents our setting off together? I cannot promise you a reception so noble and so elegant as you give me, for we have no Kray Castles in Portugal, but a sincere and cordial welcome I can truly assure you of. You will find comforts at least with us, that are not every where to be met with in that country.

John was about to make answer, when being now near the castle, they were met by Cecilia and Amelia, whom they joined, and of course nothing more was said upon the subject in their company.

There could be no doubt in the mind of young De Lancaster as to the necessity he was under of communicating to his grandfather the letter he had received from Lisbon, and he resolved to do it in the first instance without consulting even his friend Edward Wilson.

He found the good man alone in his library, and immediately began by requesting him to give order that they should not be interrupted, as he had something of a private nature to impart to him. This was soon done, and John, having briefly stated the purport of the letter, delivered it to his grandfather. It required all the philosophy of old De Lancaster to restrain his anger and astonishment within any bounds—Is this disgrace, he cried, to fall upon my name and family? It must not be; it shall not.

You will suffer me then, said John, to go over and prevent it. You see, my dear sir, I am called upon by my father: it is my duty to obey him: he is in distress, and expects me.

Let him expect. ’Tis the sluggard’s fate to expect. Am I to sacrifice the beloved of my heart; am I to extinguish the last spark of my hope, the only relique of my ancient family, to redeem a coward from his ignominious bond!

If my unhappy father is a coward, the youth replied, and reddened as he spake, let me at least convince the world, that the disgrace stops at me, and that there is but one coward in existence, that bears the name of De Lancaster.

I’ll go myself: I am his father; the disgrace is mine.

Sir!—exclaimed the youth—You’ll go yourself?—You, you to Portugal? Forbid it, Heaven! my aunt, myself, your whole united family and friends will be upon our knees to turn your mind from such a desperate thought. What can be the objection to my going? where is the danger? what have I to fear? you won’t suppose that I would condescend to turn out with that outlaw, that convicted murderer, who dare not set his foot on British land: and if you think, that I could need protection, I have it in the family of Devereux; nay, Devereux himself solicits to go with me; for he has business not less urgent than mine is to adjust with that wretch, who has had the effrontery to offer at a marriage with his sister. He comes to England and goes back at once to save his sister, and shall I do less to save a father? If Devereux thinks his name dishonoured by that vile connection, have I not equal right to be as zealous to rescue yours from that nefarious bond, and the disgraceful marriage that hangs to it?—De Lancaster paused: He turned an approving look upon his grandson: his cheek flushed, and the tear glistened in his eyes—Your reasoning is unanswerable, he cried; your motive most commendable, my child! but alas! I am too old to accompany you, and whilst you demonstrate to me, that I ought to part from you, you convince me that I could not live without you, and show me all the danger and the dread of losing you. Besides, it is not me alone, whom the parting from you will make wretched: there are hearts as weak, as tender and as fond as mine—Think of our dear Cecilia, of your aunt! what will you say to her? what to Amelia?

What I have said to you—To every one, that feels for my departure, my honour and my duty form the plea, that I must urge for giving pain to them, who are so dear to me: And surely, sir, there’s nothing so alluring in the task, that I should covet it for other reasons, than I’ve assigned to you. There must be something stronger than self-indulgence, more imperious than the repugnance, which I feel at heart, when I must force a sigh from you and them; and you of all men living best can tell what that compulsion is—We must not be dishonoured.

You have said it, De Lancaster replied; and now, my dear John, before we proceed any further I hold it right and proper to send for our friend Edward Wilson, and let him read your father’s letter without saying any thing on the subject to bias his opinion. We shall then have his sentiments upon the matter, and either be confirmed in our own judgment, or perhaps hear from him what may induce us to reconsider it.

To this John of course most readily assented, and the message instantly produced the man. De Lancaster put the letter into his hand, simply desiring him to read it. Edward’s expressive countenance, whilst perusing the contents, bespoke his sovereign contempt of the writer, and was such a comment on the text as no one could mistake—Wretched, wretched man! he cried. This is a degradation and disgrace not to him only, but to human nature. We may pity weakness; we may find some plea in the construction of a man for want of spirit and of manly feelings; but this is such an act as even folly would not own, insanity would blush for. Ah venerable sir, is this your son? ah my beloved John, is this your father? sorry I am to speak with such contempt of one so near to those, whom I respect and love. Forgive me, my good sir, it is my zeal for you my patron, and for this my pupil, that has betrayed me into this intemperance—But I’ll offend no further. This only you will suffer me to say—He is De Lancaster, and must be saved. By whom, you’ll ask: by whom but by his son? nature demands it; duty calls him forth; honour imperiously compels him to it. But whilst the sacred trust that I still hold, the solemn obligation, that still binds me to this beloved youth, whose life is dearer to me than my own, gives me authority to speak thus freely, I must insist upon my right to say, that wheresoever duty carries him, it carries me. I know his virtues, sir; I know his ardour: those I have nourished; that I have repressed, and studied to confine within due bounds. If John embarks upon this filial errand, I throw these clerical equipments off, and embark with him as my father’s son, the son of Colonel Wilson; and if you consent to part from him, no power on earth, your own excepted, shall withhold me from him.

Robert De Lancaster, who had kept his eyes fixed upon Wilson, whilst thus descanting in a higher tone and with a vehemence, that till this moment he never had given way to, now perceiving that he had brought his speech to a conclusion, rose from his seat, and, taking him by the hand, with great emotion said—Edward, I now with gratitude acknowledge, that Heaven in you hath raised me up a friend to be the comforter of my old age, and the upholder of my family in the person of my grandson, whose mind you have enlightened by your precepts, and whose life you are resolute to guard by your fortitude and friendship. When you had said of my unhappy son—He is De Lancaster and must be saved, you had said all. John must obey his duty; he must go, and I resign him to you.

Here he paused, for Colonel Wilson, entering the room, presented to him his son Henry, now promoted to a majority of dragoons and under orders to join his regiment. A finer person, and of more martial bearing, could not greet the eyes of man or woman. His address to the De Lancaster of ancient days was noble and respectful in the extreme: his brother he dismissed with that kind of soldierly embrace, which is warmly bestowed, but quickly dispatched. To John he turned, and measuring him with his eye from heel to head, as if he had been surveying a recruit, he exclaimed—May I believe my eyes? can this be John De Lancaster, whom I have the honour to address?

Here’s a De Lancaster, that shows fair promise to be a man indeed. Sir, I entreat you; give me your hand, and give me, what I have an hereditary right to ask, your friendship with it!

There it is, said John: I give it cordially with both my hands, and hope to have your friendship in return.

This salutation being over, Henry Wilson addressed himself again to the grandfather, and said—I felicitate you, honoured sir, upon this noble scyon to your ancient stock. Look, if he does not over-top us all! Edward and I are hardly fit to stand in the same file with him: we are but summer soldiers: He may let the tempest blow, and bid defiance to it.

I hope so, old De Lancaster replied, for he may chance to hear the tempest blow where he is going. John and your brother Edward are for Lisbon.

For Lisbon! cried the major; that is lucky: for Lisbon is my very destination. If they are bound thither, and will let me join them, I warrant I’ll keep pace upon the march to the sea side, and when we land at Lisbon, I’ll engage that they shall find a welcome from some as worthy and as gallant fellows, as ever yet drew breath.

Major, the good old man replied, I cannot tell you how I am delighted to hear that you are going, who have served so long and with so much honour in Portugal. You must be well acquainted with the country, and perhaps may know a gentleman, who is returning with them to his friends at Cintra, Devereux by name.

Devereux of Cintra! Henry exclaimed. Who knows not him, that ever passed but half a day at Lisbon? I know him well, and have good cause to know and honour him for his noble entertainment of me and many of my army-friends. Devereux is rich in money, richer still in a good name, and happy in a son, whom all men praise, and in a lovely daughter, whom every body admires, but no one has presumption to address.

Yes, there is one, De Lancaster replied, who is as full of presumption as he is void of merit. He now detailed not only the affair, that brought young Devereux over to England, but the business, that called his grandson out of it; and as he did this circumstantially and minutely, after his manner, the old Colonel also listened to the long but interesting narrative, though not without frequent grunts and growlings of displeasure against poor Philip; till when the story closed—Heaven have mercy on us, he exclaimed, that any man alive will let himself be scared out of his small wits by a knavish rascal, a pettifogging bragadocio fellow, half Jew and half attorney, and forsooth because he comes with parchment and with pistol—’Sdeath, had I been Philip, and six feet high as he is, I would have made the attorney eat the parchment, and given the Jew the pistol for his breakfast: ’sblood, I would have laid the bond and baggage both upon the fire and myself after them, or ever I would turn and nestle in a den with that hyæna.

Never fear that, good father, Henry cried; there is a way of dealing with hyænas, that makes them wondrous tame. If we three, and young Devereux fourth fellow, are not enough for Madam Rachel and her Jewish kindred, I have at hand a batch of special pleaders, who, without judge or jury, will soon settle her business by a process of their own.

Come then, my friends, rejoined the good old man; let us dismiss the subject for the present, and leave my grandson to discuss the point with others of the family, who perhaps may scan this enterprize with more alarm, than you, whose hearts no danger can appall. Our guest, young Devereux, has been employed upon his letters; we’ll call him out, and take a turn or two upon the terrace. The sun is pleasant, and though mother nature begins to put her winter garments on, yet she looks cheerful, and invites us forth.

CHAPTER IX.

Our Hero imparts to Amelia Jones his Purpose of setting off for Portugal.

When Mr. De Lancaster and the Wilsons had departed and left our hero alone, his heart, which conversation and the flow of Major Wilson’s spirits had upheld, now sunk within him, for it was not alone Cecilia’s tender fears, Amelia’s sorrows threw a sadness over him. He knew that he would find her with his aunt and Mrs. Jennings in their morning room; but how to draw her from them and unburden his heart to her in private was the question. He walked up to the gallery, with which their room communicated, and in passing the door took care his steps upon the dry-rubbed oaken floor should give a signal, that might reach the ear of his beloved; it being now about the time for them to take their usual walk together.

Hark! said Amelia; sure my ear deceives me, or that is Mr. John De Lancaster, whom I hear in the gallery.

I believe your ear is very correct, said Cecilia; it is my nephew’s step; but go out, my dear, and see: perhaps he wishes you to walk with him this fine day. Mrs. Jennings and I will finish what we are about, and postpone our walk till by-and-bye.

Amelia did not long delay to obey so pleasant an injunction. She sallied from the room as quick as thought—I guessed that it was you, she cried, as she went up to him, and held out her hand. Your aunt, who is all kindness, sent me to you. If you like a walk, I am ready, ’Tis a charming day.

Yes, and that voice is charming, he replied; that sweet inviting smile enchants a heart, that fondly doats upon you: but we won’t walk, Amelia; at least not yet; for I have news from Lisbon, from my father, not of a pleasant sort I must confess: and if you will trust yourself with me in this room, which is my study, and where nobody will interrupt us, I wish to discourse with you upon it in private—They immediately entered the room, and, being seated, John began as follows—

Amelia, it is my unhappy lot to have a father, who brings shame upon me, and seems to feel none for himself; in whom, with sorrow I am forced to say, I cannot trace one spark of manly resolution, or the sense of what becomes a gentleman to feel. You, on the contrary, amongst the many excellencies you possess, and I am wanting in, have the advantage also to be born of parents, though now no more, of whom you may be justly proud. Judge therefore, my Amelia, how incumbent it must be on me, whose greatest ambition is to approve myself not quite unworthy of your esteem, to support, as far as I am able, the credit of a name, which I am presumptuous enough to hope you will one day condescend to share. My father calls on me for my assistance; he conjures me to come and extricate him from a disgraceful contract, fraudulent upon the face of it, with those Ap Owens; which if I fail to do, he marries that detested villain’s mother, insults the memory of your newly-buried friend, and blasts a name, that never yet was stained.

Married! she cried; your father, and the son of that good man, whom every one reveres, married so hastily, so rashly, so unworthily! It must not be.

True, my Amelia. Look upon this relick, which gives the image of your gallant father, and to which your piety allots that envied station nearest to your heart; then, tell me, what would that brave hero say, if I, aspiring to his daughter’s love, should scruple to obey the call of honour: Would he not bid me go and save a father?

He was the friend, that upon such an errand would not have suffered you to go forth alone.

And such a friend I have in Edward Wilson; he is resolved to bear me company. Devereux returns with me, and in his house I find a family of friends: Nay, my good fortune seems resolved to give me a host of friends, for Henry, our old Colonel’s eldest son, whom in himself I may account a host, is now upon his way to join his regiment in Lisbon, and goes with us. Thus am I trebly furnished with companions. What has my dear Amelia now to fear, if thus befriended, thus accompanied, and sanctioned not by the consent alone, but the command of my good grandfather, I go where duty calls me? Now, my angel!—And, saying this, he clasped her in his arms. Where can thy gentle spirit apprehend one distant chance of danger to alarm it? What can my lovely, my betrothed Amelia, oppose to the necessity, painful although it is, of a short absence from her?

Nothing; for the decree is absolute, and what am I but a devoted creature whose heart is wholly your’s? Nothing remains for me to do, but to return you my unbounded thanks for all your goodness, and especially for condescending to impart these tidings, sad as they are, in this considerate manner to me, who in your absence can expect to live but in the hope that we shall meet again. I see, I know, I feel that we must part.

Here her voice failing for a while she seemed quite overcome by sorrow, till her tears relieved her; and at length, turning a look upon her anxious lover, that spoke a conscious dignity of mind, she rose and said—I am ashamed of this unworthy weakness. I know I ought not to bewail, but greet, the opportunity, that does you honour. To deserve a hero I must not show the softness of a child—Come, let us walk. I feel assurance of a happy issue. When you go forth upon the summons of a helpless father, I trust that Providence will be your guard: It were a sin to doubt it—This said, she gave her hand to him, and smiled: He pressed it to his heart, and thus, endeared each to the other in the purest sense of virtue’s chaste affection, forth they went—

I am ill at these descriptions: I confess it. Seventy years and seven, with clouds that hang upon my setting sun, will chill the brain, that should devise scenes and descriptions warm with youthful love. Still the chaste maiden and the prudent wife shall turn these leaves with no revolting hand, nor blush for having read them. The friend of man will find no fault with me for having given a dark shade here and there upon my canvass to set off and contrast the brighter tints and nobler attributes of human nature. Whether in novel, drama or in poem, I love the mirror, that presents mankind in amiable lights; nor can I think that frowns or wrinkles are a mark of wisdom; or that asperity becomes the face of critic or philosopher.

Whilst I write this, my grandson, a brave youth, of six years service in the royal navy, born, as I vainly hoped, to grace my name, and recompense the cares, that I bestowed upon his education, lies (as ’twere before me) dead and as yet unburied: Whilst I not only mourn his loss, but feel his wrongs, of which the world must hear, if the appeal, that he had made to justice, is cut short by his untimely death.

Where then can a heart-wounded man, like me, find comfort but with that beloved daughter, to whom I gave the memoirs of my life, and who still lives to cheer its short remains? To her I dedicate this humble work; for these repeated testimonies of my love, are all the inheritance I can bequeath her, all my hard fortune hath not wrested from me.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

Morgan of Glen Morgan arrives at Kray Castle.

The preparations, requisite for John De Lancaster’s departure, necessarily involved a delay of some two or three days, and every hand, as well as every heart, was occupied in that interesting business. The cheerfulness of Major Wilson kept up the spirits of the ladies, except upon one occasion, when he launched out so vehemently in his description of Miss Devereux’s charms, that, if he had not been so wholly taken up with his subject, he might have discovered one countenance at least in the circle of his hearers, that was not much enlivened by his raptures.

In the afternoon a messenger from Glen Morgan arrived with the following letter addressed to Colonel Wilson—