CHAPTER VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, no, no, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surely not.

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

It would not be right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your affectionate
“Robert De Lancaster.”

CHAPTER IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


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