When this letter had been read to De Lancaster, joy brightened in his hospitable countenance: his orders circulated through the Castle for all things and all people to be put in order to pay proper honours to his expected visitor. He commented with great good humour upon some passages in the letter, that seemed to strike his fancy—Though the good man, he said, is so shy of what he calls my learned disquisitions, I believe it is only a copy of his countenance, for in fact he is no mean scholar; but we will muzzle the learned languages, and trust to nothing but our mother tongue; so take notice, my good Colonel, you will incur heavy penalties if you give us any of your heathen Greek, whilst my brother Morgan is in the house.

And if I do when he is out of it, replied the Colonel, I’ll give you leave to hang me.

The next morning when the sun turned out upon the mountain tops, so did the whole Castle garrison from their sky-chambers on the turret tops, and gave cheerful note of preparation—Not indeed by the armourers accomplishing the knights, but by the warders and liverymen brushing up their orange tawnies, and by the squeaking of the pigs and quacking of ducks, that came unwillingly to be killed and roasted, whilst the mute inhabitants of the waters resigned themselves to their fate without a murmur.

When the family assembled in the breakfast-room, the Colonel appeared in his uniform, not quite in its first bloom, nor altogether in the last cut of the fashion; whilst Major Wilson, bright as bullion could make him, was perfectly caparisoned for court or camp. This ceremonious kind of etiquette, now thought troublesome and thrown by as obsolete, was understood by the family of Kray Castle as an acceptable attention to the good old lord of the soil upon certain gala days, when he was anxious to receive a visitor with particular respect.

When the approach of Morgan of Glen Morgan was descried from the castle windows, and the green and red liveries began to show their colours in the sunbeams, the alarm bell sounded, the servants mustered in the gothic hall, and David Williams seated himself on his tripod. Coaches were not made, as they are now, to accommodate the horses that draw them, but with due regard to the ease and safety of the company, who were conveyed in them. Old Morgan of course made his landing good, and found himself in the arms of his venerable host, surrounded by his friends, all emulous to greet him with a welcome.

As he leant upon the arms of De Lancaster and his grandson in his passage through the hall, he stopped and looked about him—This is wonderful, he cried; this is above hope, that I should find myself once more under the protection of these hospitable lares. Alas, when I had the honour of your company at Glen-Morgan, I little thought of making any other visit but to the place, from which no traveller returns. Providence has decreed it otherwise—Well, well, well! a man must have a stubborn heart, that could not find some cause to be thankful, when a blessing, such as I am now enjoying is vouchsafed to him. Take notice, brother De Lancaster, I understand my own unworthiness too well to intrude upon Heaven’s mercy with many petitions, but I hope I am not altogether deficient in my thanksgivings. He then addressed himself to some of the old domestics, as he passed them, and particularly to David Williams, whom he greeted cordially and with much respect.

When he entered the drawing-room he turned to Cecilia and said—I now consider myself within the territory and under the command of the most amiable lady living. I shall add no grace to you, madam, as a courtier, but as a subject none can be more loyal. In this manner he paid his compliments round the circle, reserving his last and most affectionate address for his grandson, who, having risen from his seat, whilst his grandfather was speaking to him, when he had concluded, went up to him, and bending his knee, took his hand to kiss it. The action was irresistably affecting, and the old man fell upon his neck and wept. The stillness and silence of the company whilst this was passing made the scene more awful and impressive: At length the good old man, rallying his spirits, thus addressed his grandson—I know, my child, that you are going out of England; therefore it is I am come to take my leave of you; I also know your motive to be truly filial, and of course agree entirely with your worthy grandfather in approving of your undertaking. It is your duty, it is your point of honour, and you have no choice but to obey. Being a selfish pitiful kind of fellow, perhaps I was a little shaken, when I heard of it; so to put myself in heart again, I gave out marching orders, and penned a pacquet to my old comrade the Colonel, in which I did not treat him with one word of common sense. Now therefore, John, I am come for other purposes than to whine and whimper, because forsooth you are going to make a short excursion in good and gallant company, where I wish I was going with you: but as I can’t do that, I come to see you and your comrades start, and after you are gone drink to your good voyage in a glass of old Madeira, and perhaps if my good friend here is not tired of my dull company, I may intrude upon his hospitality, and wait till you return.

Say you so? cried De Lancaster: then I pronounce you to be the kindest friend and the noblest ancient Briton, that draws the breath of life on this side of the Wye—Now tell old David to strike up a welcome in his best bravura.

CHAPTER II.

Treats of what passed at Kray Castle in the Evening of the Day before John De Lancaster’s Departure.

When the ladies had retired, and the glass gone gaily round, Morgan desired to be heard upon a matter of some consequence. Gentlemen, he said, I reside as you well know, in the near neighbourhood of Denbigh, and I have had notice given me by the corporation of that borough, that their worthy representative is at the point of death. I never cultivated any interest there, and have no great property either in or about the place. Nevertheless in their free good will to me, (though for what one merit on my part they bear me that good will neither they nor I can guess) they offer to elect the friend, whom I shall recommend. They wish my grandson De Lancaster was of age to represent them, as they hold him high in honour for the generous part he took in poor Ap Rees’s melancholy case. I thanked them, but had nobody in my view. As they were anxious to mark their abhorrence of a certain young baronet, who had been soliciting their support, this answer of mine did not satisfy them, but they would needs have me refer myself to my brother-in-law Mr. De Lancaster, now in the chair beside me; which of course I promised to do, and now fulfil my word. This I stated to him in a few words before dinner, and had his permission to call upon him, as I now do, for his answer.

I have not a moment’s hesitation, De Lancaster replied, what to answer; for in the person of my friend Sir Arthur Floyd, luckily here present, I recognize every quality, that can constitute a character at all points worthy of their choice—an active magistrate, an honourable gentleman, a loyal subject, an able incorrupt and independent senator.

Before the baronet could reply, a joyous shout from our young hero John, followed by a general plaudit of hands, seemed to leave Sir Arthur without the power of recollection, or the privilege of choice.

At length he rose, and, after bowing to Mr. De Lancaster and the company, he said—I have occasion to know, that the unworthy nephew, (with whose name I will not stain my lips) of a worthy baronet lately deceased, had pointed his ambition and directed all his resources to the attainment of this object, now so unexpectedly and beyond my hopes proposed to me, and seconded by an applause, that must ever follow what that gentleman says, even when he deigns to take so humble an individual as myself for his subject. But as I have hitherto been known as of the party and politics of that person before alluded to, now become so abandoned and so despicable, I will on no account accept the support of any one voter for the borough of Denbigh, until it is clearly and distinctly ascertained in the most public manner, that I offer myself upon principles directly opposite to those of that expatriated villain, (I can call him nothing less,) and that I put my honour and my pledge into the hands of Mr. De Lancaster, as my friend, my sponsor and my patron.

This handsome declaration produced a second and a louder applause, and that called up Sir Arthur Floyd once more from his seat to return his thanks to the company and at the same time to remind them of their duty to the ladies, humbly proposing, with Mr. De Lancaster’s permission, an adjournment to the drawing-room: upon which gallant and well-timed appeal, the company with prompt obedience rose, and left the table.

This was the time when every one was solicitous to approach and pay their homage to Cecilia De Lancaster; here, like Cato’s daughter, she presided—

On one side of her sate the sage preceptress of the young and blooming Amelia, who, on the other side, assisted in the elegant ministration of those lady-like offices, which it was not then the custom to transfer to a domestic. The refreshments of the tea-table came recommended to our lips from the fair hands of the lady president, who delicately distinguished every person’s right, and without confusion of property guarded his exclusive cup, and faithfully returned it to the owner: Now some snuffy hectick house-keeper huddles all together, and indiscriminately serves out the messes, hot or cold, strong or weak, as chance directs, to be handed round the room for those, who chuse to try their luck in a lottery of hot water, very little better than poor Timon’s dinner to his disappointed parasites.

As soon as this ceremony was over the folding doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and David Williams, led by his son bearing his harp, and in his habit of office, entered and took the post prepared for him: he paused and reached out his hand to the seat beside him, as if waiting for some one else. When immediately old Robin Ap Rees in a mourning vest with black crape sleeves to the elbows only, and bound about his waist with a sash of the same stuff, but without medal, or any professional badge, that could mark him as the bard of the Ap Owens, approached and made a profound obeisance in the door-way. Upon his appearing every heart was touched: his tall spare figure, drooping head and shrivelled arms, with the pale hue of his woe-stricken visage, might have softened the iron heart of Gallia’s savage tyrant; can we then wonder if the generous bosoms of those assembled felt that soft impression, which Nature’s poet terms the every dint of pity?

John, who alone was in the secret of his coming, had whispered Amelia and his aunt to prepare themselves for his appearance. He now rose, and took the blind bard by the hand to lead him to his seat, when, upon his grandfather beginning to speak, he stopped, and whilst Ap Rees turned respectfully towards the voice that addressed him, Mr. De Lancaster delivered himself as follows—

My good old friend, and favourite of the Muse, to whom I am beholden for so many tuneful hours, it is now with mixed sensations of satisfaction and sorrow, that I greet you with a welcome, and assure you that the friendship and protection, which my grandson shows you, have my warmest approbation and most cordial concurrence. Your worthiness, your genius, your afflictions claim his compassionate regard and care. I take this visit, that you pay us on the eve of his departure, as a tribute of your esteem, which I am persuaded has cost you some painful efforts to pay, and which I am not less satisfied is considered and appretiated by him as it ought to be. I see you have brought your harp, and my minstrel David Williams, who honours and admires you, will gladly either take a part with you, where the strain allows of it, or listen to you with delight, if you rather wish to treat us with some melody of your own.

Respected sir, Ap Rees replied, my natural wish would be to edify in silence, whilst my superior (such I am conscious Mr. Williams is) exhibited that excellence, which has no rival; in me at least that rival is not found. But, Sir, there stands beside me one—would I could see him!—an exalted being, endowed by nature with such blessed properties, that, but to guess at what he wishes done and not to do it, would be in me, who live upon his bounty, and may be said almost to breathe his air, a sin of such ingratitude as yet no name is found for, and I hope no instance ever will occur to put invention to that lamentable test. Your grandson, Heaven preserve him, willed me to string my tuneless harp afresh, and second Mr. Williams in a strain, melodiously adapted to the words which he will chaunt.

To this of course the assent was universal. The sightless brethren put their harps in time: Ap Rees enriched the strain with his harmonious chords, whilst Williams led and sung, as here ensues—

If our hero John was, as I suspect, the author of these lines, it is plain he was more in love with his mistress, than his muse was with her poet: But young men are very apt to scratch, when the itch of scribbling is upon them.

CHAPTER III.

Our Hero takes his Departure from Kray Castle.

Amelia, who had counted every hour during a sleepless melancholy night, rose with the break of day, and light of foot, though with a heavy heart, flitted along the gallery in the dusk, and gently tapping at the chamber door, where John and she had mutually agreed to pass a parting hour, was instantly admitted by her lover, accoutered for his journey.

Of this scene I must decline to attempt a description. I could say nothing new to such of my readers, who know by experience how exquisitely pure those feelings are, which virtuous love inspires; and on such, as have not that experience, my labour would be lost. In short it was an interview between two young persons, firmly affianced and fondly attached to each other, and how delicately that must pass, which honour conducts on one part, and innocence on the other, there needs no ghost to tell us.

In the breakfast-room the whole family were assembled. In the countenances of the several parties any man of common sagacity might have read the several feelings. Old De Lancaster struggled hard to maintain a firm and dignified tranquillity, and if he did at any time betray symptoms of occasional embarrassment, it was only to show that his philosophy did not absolutely desert him. The person, whose thoughts seemed to be most disengaged, was the gallant Major, who just then had the most to do; for the ordering and arranging of the whole cavalcade had been assigned over to him, and the alacrity, with which he executed his authority over men, horses and carriages, left him no time for those tender sentiments and concerns, that seemed to occupy every body else. Life and spirit animated him; silence and sadness dwelt on all the rest.

Here was an opportunity for an orator to avail himself of, and an audience to his heart’s content most happily disposed to hear him: but Mr. De Lancaster let it go by for reasons no doubt best known to himself. He did indeed take occasion to impart a few words to Edward Wilson when he came into the room; but they were only for his private ear. The ladies kept their station in the back ground, and as much out of sight as they could contrive. Devereux had very sensibly committed his adieus to paper, and left them in the hands of Mr. De Lancaster’s servant to be delivered to him at his better leisure. At length Major Wilson in a sprightly tone announced all ready; Devereux’s travelling coach was first at the door, and appointed to lead; himself with John and the two Wilsons were by the major’s order billeted upon it; our hero halted a few minutes, after his companions had taken leave, to bid farewell to the beloved objects of his duty and affection; after which, having presented himself at the door of the coach, where his three friends were already seated, he made his parting acknowledgments to the crowd, who were invoking blessings in his behalf; and passed the outward gate of the castle with those sensations and in that kind of triumph, which only virtue can deserve, and gratitude alone bestow.

When Colonel Wilson, who had gone to the hall-door with his sons, returned to the breakfast-room, the ladies had departed, and he found the two grandfathers left in silent sadness to themselves. De Lancaster was in a meditative posture, with his elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and his head reclined upon his hand. Poor old Morgan was wetting a crust of bread with his tears, whilst he was mumbling it with his teeth. When he had pretty nearly settled the controversy between swallowing, coughing and choaking, he turned a look upon Wilson, and said—

Brother soldier, there is nothing in this world, for which I so much envy you as for that piece of wood, that you wear as a supplement to your composition, and is one part of you at least, which is totally devoid of feeling. I always knew you were what we call heart of oak, but I did not till now know that you had an oaken heart. Look at me. Did you ever see such a blubbering beast as I have made of myself? By the life of me, Wilson, you are a fine gay fellow, and can have neither water in your head, nor water at your heart, else methinks you would have pumped up some of it upon this occasion. May I perish, if I don’t suspect you have got an hydrophobia in your eyes: at least, I am sure you will never die of Niobe’s disease—all tears.

I hope not, Colonel Wilson replied; yet to such tears as you shed I cannot object, forasmuch as they convince me I was not mistaken, when I set you down as a very tender-hearted man, though you was pleased to represent yourself as something without any heart at all. When I now find you weeping without cause; what would you do, if you had cause? Why, man, you would drown yourself in tears. Old fellows like me rarely out-live old habits, let them live as long as they may. I have been a poor soldier at the command of other people, and bandied up and down, all my life long. If I had wit enough to understand my duty, I never wanted will to undertake it; in this light I look upon this trip of your grandson’s as a call of duty made upon him by his father, who according to the laws of nature is properly his commanding officer, though Heaven know he is as little proper for a command as any non-effective officer can be, though you rummaged the whole shelf to search for him. And now give me leave, my good friend, to ask you, whether you lament over his absence because he is out upon his duty, or because he can’t go there and stay here at one and the same time. Convince me only that he went away from us when he might honourably have staid at home, and I will own you have good reason to lament his absence. In the mean time I confess to you that I do not conceive our dear John De Lancaster to be more in the way of danger upon this expedition, and with those friends, than he would be on his horse’s back on a chace after a paltry fox, which it is no part of his duty to pursue, nor any proof of his merit to overtake.

Whilst the Colonel had been thus haranguing, Mr. De Lancaster had shifted his meditative posture, and paid attention to what was passing: He now took up the argument, and replied—Enough said, my good Colonel, enough said! You have a right to argue for duty, having yourself uniformly obeyed and fulfilled it, as an officer and a gentleman. My brother Morgan does not want to be convinced that his grandson is gone upon an honourable errand; but you are well aware, that the painful and enfeebling illness, with which he has been visited, will naturally shake even the firmest and the bravest spirit.

In my own particular I am not a man prone to shed tears: If I were, I confess to you, Colonel Wilson, I should be sooner thrown into the melting mood by the contemplation of a generous act, or noble sentiment, than by the pathos of a tragedy, or the pity-moving lamentations of a desponding lover, or a whining mendicant.

A servant now delivered the letter Devereux had left for Mr. De Lancaster, who read as follows.—

CHAPTER IV.

Our Hero arrives at Lisbon. Is hospitably received by the Father of young Devereux; accompanies him to his House: What there occurs is related.

We must now attend upon the travellers, to whom no circumstance occurred upon their journey worth relating, and who, after an expeditious and safe voyage, with fair wind and favourable weather, dropped anchor in the Tagus, and were quickly visited by Mr. Devereux the father, who came on board, whilst his barge and rowers, handsomely appointed, waited alongside.

Upon the first sight of this gentleman, John De Lancaster eagerly enquired for his father, and why he did not come off from the shore: the answer was that his situation just then did not admit of it.

He is ill, said De Lancaster.

Indeed he is far from well, rejoined the other.

May I not go off to him directly?

The officers of health are on board, said Mr. Devereux; but I have obtained leave to bring you on shore directly: Your friends however and servants must put up with a short detention, till certain forms are dispensed with. John De Lancaster, conducted by Mr. Devereux, immediately went over the ship’s side, and the barge pushed off for the landing-place.

Tell me, I conjure you, sir, said our hero, the truth without reserve, in what situation I am to find my father, and believe me, Mr. Devereux, whatever that may be, though I have a heart to feel it as a son, I trust I have a proper sense of my duty to meet the dispensation as I ought.

Your father is not dead, Devereux replied, although I must not disguise from you that his life is despaired of. He has been infamously treated, and, as it is presumed, unfairly wounded, either by some hired assassin or by Sir David Ap Owen, with whom the unhappy gentleman, it seems, had been induced to trust himself, and turn out alone to settle their differences by a duel. This is all we can at present collect of an affair, that has a very black appearance. Suspicion is strong against Ap Owen, who has absconded, and the ministers of justice are sent out in all directions after him. He is not yet discovered; and your poor father, who is now attended by his surgeons in my house, I am sorry to say, is in no capacity of giving us any information, his senses being totally deranged.

To this De Lancaster for a few minutes was in no condition to make answer, but put up his hand to his eyes, and suffered grief to overpower him. The barge now approached the landing place, where Devereux’s carriage was in waiting. Our hero rallied his spirits, landed from the barge with an assumed composure, took his seat in the coach, and soon found himself at the door of a magnificent house in the great square, that opens to the river.

Ushered by his friendly host through a noble hall, John De Lancaster ascended the stairs, and cautiously entered the chamber, where his father was lying on a couch, at the side of which a young lady was standing, who made a sign for him to stop. It was the daughter of Mr. Devereux, and by the faint light, that was admitted into the chamber, the elegance of her form struck on the instant with such a resemblance to the image ever present to his mind, that in the agitation of the moment the words involuntarily escaped him in a murmur loud enough for her to hear—Heaven defend me, is it my Amelia, or some sister angel, that I see?—Alas, she said, ’twould be an angel’s office to afford you comfort; for human help I fear is all in vain—He bowed, and approached the couch.

A death-like insensibility, though not death itself, seemed to have locked up all the vital powers of the unhappy object, which to behold, now chilled the filial heart of our afflicted hero. He took his father’s hand, and turning to the lady by his side—It is not absolutely cold, he said, nor is his pulse quite gone. If I could waken him from this morbid trance, and get him once to turn his eyes upon me, I think that he would know me.

Try it, she said; and speak to him. Perhaps your voice may rouse him: Our’s have no effect.

Father! he cried, my father, do you hear me? I am your son. I am come to visit you; to comfort you, to avenge you. Look on me; recollect me! it is I; ’tis John De Lancaster, who speaks to you.

The filial voice awakened him; the animating call stayed the emancipated spirit, even in the act of parting on its flight, and Death, at Nature’s privileged appeal still to be heard, forbore to stop the pulses of the heart, and gave the reinstated senses once more use of their suspended functions.

When Maria Devereux saw this, she exclaimed—He lives; he stirs! Let in more light, that he may see his son.

The dying father had now unclosed his eyes, and the wild ghastly stare, with which at first he fixed them on his son, as his mind gained its recollecting power, softened, and by degrees assumed a look, indicative of that intelligence, that gleam of satisfaction and delight, which in his mercy God sometimes vouchsafes, when he releases his afflicted creatures, and calls them to his peace from persecution and a world of woe.

At length a voice, yet audible, exclaimed—My son, my son! I see you, hear you: You are come to close your father’s eyes—May Heaven reward you for it! Ah John, John, I am murdered, basely murdered.—Here he checked, and straggled hard for words. At length he faintly cried, Reach me a cordial; let me wet my throat, and I’ll relate it to you.

Maria, who stood ready on the watch, quickly presented him the cordial draught. He made signs to be raised up in his couch: It was providently so constructed as to effect what he wished for without disturbance of his person, or alteration of his posture. The fair hand, that brought it, lifted it to his lips; (it is to female feeling and compassion that we must look for offices like these in our last moments.) Philip felt the kindness—Bless you! he cried, and drank what she bestowed to the last drop: the comfort, that it gave him, was immediate: his eyes, which now he turned upon his son, appeared to brighten, and he thus addressed him—

Oh! now I see you clearly and distinctly: now I perceive that power is mercifully granted me to recollect and tell you my sad story. I will be brief however, for I feel that this reprieve is only for a time: Now listen therefore, and record my words—When that Ap-Owen, that atrocious villain, heard you were coming over, he called upon me, and with furious threats demanded of me instantly to wed the base-born woman, whom he calls his mother, or satisfy the bond. ’Twas then, though much too late, I recollected what was due from a De Lancaster, and shortly told him that his threats were vain; I would do neither: I abhorred a duel, as he well knew, but I would sooner die than stain my name, and stoop to such extortion and disgrace. He raved; he swore, and foamed like one possessed: he sprung upon me, and aimed to seize my throat; I grappled with him, and hurled him on the floor. He rose, and drew his sword; I had drawn mine the whilst in my defence, and my blood boiled within me. Coward, I cried, assassin, I defy you! Here, or elsewhere, I am ready on the moment.—Then follow me, he said, and in a spot, where I’ll conduct you, not two furlongs off, we’ll settle our dispute. I followed him, unthinking as I was; for he had galled me past my power to bear; and in a grove, as I was entering it, some one from behind gave me a blow, that felled me to the ground: There as I lay, but not deprived of sense, the inhuman monster, the unmanly coward, rushed on me as I was in act to rise; and thrust me through the body with his sword: he fled, and left the murderous weapon in me: I bled profusely; could not call for help, nor raise myself from off the ground; I fainted, and thenceforward cannot account how time has passed, till now that I revive to see you and that beauteous form, that sweet benevolence, that gave me drink; and I suppose, is she, whom my dead wife wished you to marry; and, if you are married, may Heaven confirm my blessing on you both.—Ah, I relapse again; all, all is past—farewell for ever.—

This said, his head collapsed upon his shoulder; his eye-lids dropped; he strove convulsively to grasp the clothes that were upon him; his bosom heaved as if about to burst, and one deep sigh, the last he drew, released his struggling spirit, and left him outstretched at his utmost length, a lifeless corpse.

CHAPTER V.

A further Account of what occurred at Lisbon after John De Lancaster’s Arrival at that Place.

Such was the melancholy end of Philip, son of old De Lancaster, and father of our hero. Heaven endowed him with moderate faculties, and indolence conspired to make that little less. The place, which he left vacant in the list of the De Lancasters from earliest time, was scarcely less a chasm whilst he lived, than now when he was dead. Yet weak and dormant as his spirit was, repeated aggravations from Ap Owen roused him at last, and in the moment of his unguarded courage he fell into an artful villain’s snare and was destroyed.

The memoirs of poor Philip’s life would hardly fill a page; but the reflections, that might be deduced from his untimely death would be a lesson of useful warning to those listless idlers, those noneffectives in creation’s roll, who seem destined to live for no worthier purpose, except to turn that vital air to waste, which might have fed the lungs of nobler beings, who either patiently employ their hours over the midnight lamp in learned toil; or, by their country called to unwholesome climes, where the extremes of heat or cold are fatal, go forth and die by thousands.

Still nature pleaded to the filial heart of John De Lancaster—That mangled corpse, on which you look, gave life to you, and was your father—Keenly he felt the appeal, and, whilst his eyes dwelt on the piteous object, the big tears rolled down his cheeks: nor could he quite abstain from exclamation, or keep his fiery spirit in command, whilst the last words his dying father uttered still sounded in his ears—Never, he cried, bear witness for me, Nature! will I revisit my beloved home, till I have obtained, or executed, justice on the villain, the out-lawed enemy of God and man, who did this murderous deed. This is the second corpse, that he has made, and sent the immortal spirit to arraign him at Heaven’s tribunal. Dreadful wretch, what must the torment of his conscience be.

Whilst these or words like these, burst from his lips, as still he stood, alone, contemplating the dismal scene, Edward, the younger Wilson, came behind him, and embracing him, whilst he spake—Bear up, he cried: remember God allows these trials to improve and exercise our virtue: every sorrow, that may fall on us by his dispensation, may be converted to our use and profit. And now, if what I say required a proof how prompt his justice is, I have it for you—The criminal is seized and in your hands—Aye! that is right: address your praise to Heaven! there fix your thoughts, and cease to mourn for him, whose cause is heard, whose injuries are redressed—But you shall have the matter as it passed.

After you left the ship Devereux obtained intelligence that Owen had been traced, and was suspected to have got on board a certain vessel, which he pointed out, then lying near us, bound to the Western Isles, and ready for a start. The man, who told him this, came from the shore, and was apprised, that orders had been out to search for him, and seize him on suspicion of murder. Upon this information instantly Devereux with Henry and myself, well armed, took to the boat (the master of the pacquet freely granting it) and in a few minutes, claiming our right of search, we were admitted; and rushing to the cabin, there discovered Owen, who, though disguised in the apparel of a common sailor, made no attempt to contradict our charge, such was his terror on the sight of us, and his surprise exceeding all description. We told him that our errand was to seize him—What had he done?—What you must answer for with your life, we replied. Murdered a noble gentleman, your countryman, your friend, Philip De Lancaster.—Is he then dead? he cried, and started with horror, trembling and ghastly pale.—Two or three of the by-standers instantly exclaimed—He’s guilty, he confesses it: Away with him! He sunk down on his chair, and hid his eyes. My brother now addressed him by his name, and said—Sir David Owen, you must come with us. The laws demand you. You know both who I am, and what I am: A Major in the King of England’s army serving in Portugal; and in the right of that commission I arrest you as his subject, on the charge of murder; and I am sure, none in this vessel will attempt to stop me in the due execution of my duty.

None, cried the Captain; pass! Let all stand clear! ’Twas then we saw, in the behaviour of that wretched man, how abject guilt can be: That insolence, which I have witnessed, now was sunk into despondency, and but that pity would in me have been almost a crime, I could have pitied him, when in a melancholy tone, he said—I am your prisoner. Misery beyond mine, man cannot suffer. You have known me, Major Wilson, in better days: I am a gentleman; at least I have been such: Don’t let your people use me ill, I pray you—He was at this time in so helpless a state, that we were obliged to have him lifted into the boat. Henry gave orders to be rowed to the shore: A considerable party of his officers and men were there discovered waiting for his landing: When we approached, they cheered him, and as soon as he had set his foot on shore, the air again rang with their shouts—Comrades! he cried, as they were crowding round us, you will stifle us with your kindness: Form a circle, and give us air; don’t you perceive the prisoner is fainting? He caused his soldiers instantly to make a kind of military litter by taking hands, and in this manner they bore off the wretched criminal by his order to the guard-house. Whilst this was passing I had taken notice of an officer in the same uniform with the others, who had separated himself from his comrades, and stood apart from the circle, not interfering, but much interested, as it seemed, in what was going on. When my brother had given orders for his men to take Ap Owen to the guard-house, he called this young officer to him, and bade him take a party with him to Mr. Devereux’s house in the square, for the purpose of escorting us through the streets, where a crowd was now collecting. This young gentleman is now on guard upon the house, waiting till my brother shall come, and dismiss him: Mr. Devereux invited him to accept of some refreshment; but he declined it on the plea of duty to the special orders of his commanding officer.

Here Edward Wilson concluded his narrative, and John De Lancaster, who had heard him with the most profound attention, now took his hand, and pressing it to his bosom—Worthiest and best of men, he said, I see with humblest thankfulness the hand of Heaven in these events, which you have faithfully related to me; for, wonderful although they are, yet I am sure nothing but truth can issue from your lips. The cause no longer is with me; nor ought I to indulge a fruitless grief, much less an angry and revengeful spirit. ’Tis henceforth only these unburied reliques, this breathless piece of clay that I must guard. But in that duty I must be alert, for decency requires, that with our quickest forecast and dispatch we must provide for this corruptible, and take such instant means, as may secure it from these melting heats till our departure: In the mean time we must look out to find a proper house, respectably appointed for the purpose of paying all those honours to the dead, which must not be omitted on my part.

Having said this, he declared himself ready and sufficiently composed to pay his respects to the family, which had so hospitably received him and so highly merited his thanks for their benevolent attentions to the unfortunate deceased.

At the foot of the great stair-case, which landed in the hall, he was met by Mr. Devereux and his son, who ushered him into an elegant and spacious room: Here he had an opportunity of returning his acknowledgements to the amiable and compassionate Maria in a better manner, than he was in a capacity for doing, when she was present with them, whilst his father expired.

At her solicitation he drank some wine and partook of some refreshments; and as the delicate consideration of his worthy host had allowed no stranger to intrude unseasonably upon him, he found no other calls to satisfy but those of gratitude, and whilst he saw a tender sympathy and sweet benevolence in all around him, his spirits brightened, and his youthful heart glowed with devotion, thankfulness and love of that pure quality, that sacred character, which, springing up from earth, reaches to heaven, and man partakes of in its way to God.

CHAPTER VI.

There are Secrets in all Families.

After an hour thus passed had calmed our orphan hero’s agitated mind, a word was given out at the hall door, and the centinels were heard to salute, when immediately Major Wilson was announced, and young Devereux hastened to give him welcome, and usher him into the room, where the family were assembled. The gallant soldier entered, and was followed by the officer who had received him at the door. In the act of paying his devoirs to Maria Devereux, and in the manner of her receiving him, there was an expression of surprise; and a certain instant change of countenance on both sides, which probably did not escape the notice of any one there present. It struck her father in particular so strongly, that when the blood, that had rushed into, and overspread her countenance, had now given place to an alarming paleness, he anxiously enquired if she was not suddenly taken ill. She confessed being a little sensible just then of the extraordinary heat upon letting in the outward air from the door, but that she was quite as suddenly relieved, and her looks soon testified to the truth, or, more properly speaking, the plausibility of her excuse.

The Major in the mean time was not wholly unembarrassed, neither did he give the directest answers to the many speeches, compliments and enquiries, that were successively addressed to him. As soon however as he obtained a respite, anxious to turn the general attention to some other object, than the lady, who had so lately engrossed it, he addressed himself to the young officer, whom he had introduced, and in an under-tone, that was not quite a whisper, said in his ear, familiarly laying his hand upon his shoulders—Roberts, my dear boy, I would wish you to step to the guard-house—The obedient subaltern was instantly on his legs—Nay, said the Major, I don’t want to hurry you out of this company, to which, above all others, I should be most happy and most proud to have you known, but I sincerely think it would be right for you to visit a certain person there, who earnestly solicited to see you; and being sure that what you ought to do you ever will do, I promised in your name, that you should come. Go then, and tell the officer on duty, you have my leave to be admitted to the prisoner under his charge—The young man bowed respectfully, and asked if he had any further orders. The Major upon referring to Mr. Devereux if he had any commands for the party, having received for answer that he had none, said—Take off your centinels; march them with your party to the barracks, and there dismiss them—This was answered by a second military obeisance to his commanding officer, and whilst Mr. Devereux was politely saying, that he hoped to have a better opportunity of being known to him, he made his acknowledgements with great respect, and departed.

I should guess, said Edward Wilson, from what I observed of that very interesting youth, that there is something in his mind of a melancholy nature, that oppresses him.

There is every thing in his mind, the Major replied, that does honour to his feelings. You perhaps observed him stand aloof whilst we were busy with the prisoner. That young man, by the death of his father Colonel Roberts, is at this very time next heir to the entire estate of the Ap-Owens under strict entail. Knowing this to be his situation, I remarked the delicacy of his conduct with peculiar satisfaction, and I also happen to know that he purchased into the regiment with money supplied for that purpose by the unhappy man, whom he is gone to visit. There was a trace of human kindness in that act, and therefore I record it. There are packages and trunks belonging to the criminal, which we brought ashore and have in safe keeping; these are most likely of considerable value, and in the situation which this young man stands towards the present owner of those effects, I think it right for his sake that I should be present at the opening of them.

With these words he rose to take his leave; Maria’s eyes followed him to the door; the glance was not unobserved by him; he bowed to her, and having beckoned to his brother, Edward instantly obeyed the signal, and they passed the windows arm in arm hastening to overtake young Roberts and his party.

Well! cried the elder Devereux, that is indeed a soldier and a gentleman. Never did I contemplate courage, honour and benevolence more strongly charactered in the human form and countenance. I am enchanted with Major Wilson, and I hope he will allow me to cultivate his friendship.

A nobler being does not breathe the air, De Lancaster exclaimed. He is the true son of the best of fathers, and full brother to my best of friends.

He is the preserver of my life, Maria said, and the tears glistened in her eyes, as she uttered it.

Astonishment seized the father and the brother upon this sudden and extraordinary declaration. De Lancaster started from his seat, and offered to withdraw. The generous Maria immediately interposed to prevent him—Stay, sir, I conjure you, she exclaimed, and as you must have noticed my agitation upon seeing Major Wilson, I beg you will be pleased to hear me state the circumstance that caused it.

Right! cried the father, ’tis expected of you. Every thing that is honourable, said the brother, may be expected from a character like Major Wilson’s. I’ll pledge myself that nothing can be told of him, which my sister may not repeat without a blush.

I thank you for that handsome testimony, rejoined De Lancaster. Miss Devereux has said, that my friend Wilson is the preserver of her life; every body of course, that has the honour to know her, must feel an obligation to respect and honour him.

You may recollect, said Maria, addressing herself to her father, when Count La Lippe had his grand review at Cintra about this time last year, you permitted me to be present at that brilliant spectacle: upon a charge made by the cavalry my horse became unquiet, and, rearing, dislodged me from my saddle, whilst, my foot being entangled in the stirrup, rendered my situation that of the most imminent danger: in this perilous moment, as I was in the very act of falling, I found myself in the arms of an officer, who at the same time that he was supporting me, found means by an extraordinary exertion to stop my horse, and rescue me in the very instant, when my life would have been at the mercy of the terrified animal. When my alarm and agitation had so far subsided as to enable me to speak, I did not fail, as you may well believe, to render those acknowledgements and thanks, that were so justly due: I told the stranger who I was, and that I had a father, who would be most anxious to express to him his grateful sense of the service he had rendered to me: perceiving him to be a British officer, I also besought him to inform me by what name you, sir, were to discover and address the preserver of my life. When I looked to him for his answer, he seemed to be at that moment in even greater agitation than I was myself, and I had reason to apprehend he had received some hurt by the violence of my horse: he hastily replied, that he was to leave Lisbon the next morning, and probably might not return to it again: after a short pause, seemingly to recover breath, or perhaps from the effect of pain, he added (and I well remember the very words he used, and the expressive manner of his uttering them)—Alas, madam, I am a mere soldier of fortune, and the only happy fortune, that has hitherto befallen me, is this, which I now enjoy, of having rendered you some little service: With the joy this gives me I am so abundantly rewarded, that I cannot think of receiving any other acknowledgements, than those, which you have honoured me with already—Whereupon, seeing my party come to me, and that I was safe and unhurt, he apologized for the necessity of his abrupt departure, and hastened to recover his charger and rejoin his regiment. Judge now, my dear father, when I recognized my preserver in the person of Major Wilson, whether I had not cause to be affected by the conscious grateful sense of my unspeakable obligations to him.

Surely, my beloved child, replied the father of the beautiful and ingenuous Maria, you had just and ample cause for the sensibility of your feelings on the sight of Major Wilson; and I and your brother, and every one, that values and esteems you, are bound for ever to esteem and value him. Had he been the poorest private in the army, I would have made him affluent for life: it would have been my duty: But when I find myself indebted for every thing that is dear and precious, to a man of Major Wilson’s amiable and engaging character, what can I say less, in the warmth of my paternal feelings, than that if he were to claim my daughter herself as a recompence for my daughter’s life, I, as far as my authority extends, should have no scruple to confirm his title?

Upon hearing these words, young Devereux eagerly started from his seat, and in the enthusiasm of his friendship for Wilson, exclaimed—That is nobly said! that, my dear father, that is like yourself: I second it with my whole heart.

What our delighted and approving hero felt, he properly and considerately kept to himself, as far as his expressive countenance would suffer him to conceal it; in the mean time, Maria (the sensitive and interesting Maria) covered with blushes, and dissolving into tears which had every grateful, every virtuous affection for their source, took her father’s hand, tenderly pressed it to her lips, and hastened out of the room.

You have allowed me, Mr. Devereux, said our hero, to witness a domestic scene, revealing secrets, which my honour never will permit me to violate, and inspiring me with an admiration of your lovely daughter, and a respect for you and my friend your son, which nothing can exceed.

CHAPTER VII.

A Chapter, which disposes of one of the principal Characters in the History, and concludes the second Book of the third and last Volume.

The next morning early, as soon as John De Lancaster had risen and was dressed, a note from Cornet Roberts signified, that he was waiting, and requested leave to be admitted to him in private for a very few minutes. This was instantly granted, and his visitor introduced the business he was upon by premising, that it concerned a guilty but repentant object, whom he was sensible it did not become him even to name in Mr. De Lancaster’s hearing, unless he had his free permission so to do.

Assure me only, said De Lancaster, that the person you allude to is really penitent, and I shall then think it my duty to hear and attend to any thing, you have to tell me of Sir David Ap Owen, or from Sir David.

That he is truly penitent, replied Roberts, I most seriously believe, and, as one proof of it, I have received from his hands this bond, which with contrition he returns to you by mine.

He considers himself as a dying man, and from what he hinted at respecting his avoidance of a public execution, I cannot but suspect that he has taken means to intercept that punishment. I understand from my kind friend Major Wilson, that you are apprised of my connection and peculiar situation with respect to this unhappy man. I therefore flatter myself you will not be displeased when I inform you, that I have here in my hand a full confession, every word of which was dictated by him, and signed in his own hand-writing with his name, of the dreadful crime, which has made you fatherless, and also of another infamous proceeding of a complicated nature, respecting a much-injured young woman, daughter of his uncle’s bard Ap Rees, and now deceased. Under the dreadful consciousness of these atrocious deeds he is now approaching to his last hour. Condition more calamitous than this, is not in mortal man to suffer or conceive.—In a trunk, of which I have the key, there is a considerable sum of money, raised and amassed by him before and since his leaving England, as a resource I should suppose against events, which he had reason to foresee and dread. Out of this money he has directed me to purchase an annuity for the joint lives of the father and brother of the poor girl, who was the victim of his cruel and flagitious passions. Of his mother he speaks with bitterest abhorrence, accusing her as the incendiary, who inflamed his animosity against you, and spurred him on to the late horrid act to satisfy her malice and revenge. She has thrown herself into the convent of Saint Barbara, and by a letter I am charged with he solemnly adjures her to devote the remnant of her days to repentance and atonement. This sir, is the sum of what I am commissioned to report to you, except the last most anxious wish of his heart, a wish however, which he justly fears you cannot be induced to grant, though he credits you for charity of the sublimest sort; namely, that you would condescend to look upon him in his extreme distress, and suffer him to humble himself before you, though despairing of forgiveness.

Sir, replied De Lancaster, with the lessons and example of our Heavenly Master ever before me, it is not in my heart, wounded although it be, to turn away from this repentant criminal, and not comply with his request, however painful it must be to grant it. Tell him I’ll come to him within this hour; nay, if you rather wish it, I am ready at this very minute to go with you. Perhaps what you conjecture may be true; and, if it be, no time is to be lost.

This said, the generous youth, without a moment’s loss, took his visitor by the arm, and with a ready mind, prepared for every trial, hastened to the melancholy abode, where, upon giving in his name to the officer upon guard, he was admitted to the wretch, who had been his unrelenting enemy through life, and had at length completed the full measure of his malice and atrocity by the murder of his father.

Upon entering the room, John De Lancaster had no sooner come within the centinels, than he stopped, and, addressing himself to the prisoner, said—Sir David Ap Owen, I am come at your desire to convince you that I am incapable of withholding from you any thing on my part, that can facilitate and further your repentance, which I truly hope may be so perfect and sincere, as to atone for your offences, grievous as they have been, and, through the intercession of your Redeemer, recommend you to the mercy and forgiveness of your God.

The prisoner had been reading; he raised his eyes from the book, and fixing them with wild amazement upon the person of the man he had so deeply injured, now beyond all his hopes presenting himself at his call, and addressing him with these solemn and impressive words, when struck on a sudden to the heart (the mortal dose conspiring with his conscience to arrest and stop its pulses) he gave a hideous shriek and fell into a swoon.

There were two centinels within the room; the officer upon guard had entered with De Lancaster, and his relation Mr. Roberts was also present to assist him. By their efforts, and the medical assistance within their call, the prisoner after a time was brought out of his fit; De Lancaster in the mean while never stirring from the spot where he stood.

There was evidently a change and some derangement of features observable in the prisoner after this attack: his mouth was in a degree drawn aside, and he seemed to speak with difficulty: he made himself however understood, and asked if he might be permitted to be in private with the gentleman, who had condescended to visit him—I am struck with death, he said, and if the door was opened to me, I could not walk out of it.—To this the officer made answer, that his orders did not allow him in any case to take off the centinels, and of course his suit could not be granted.—I submit, replied the dying suicide, and now when I am hastening to the presence of that awful Judge, from whom nothing that I have done, nothing that I have meditated, can be hidden or concealed, what avails it who is present to hear and to attest my full and free confession that I am guilty of the heinous crime, for which I justly suffer this imprisonment, so rigidly, but so deservedly, enforced? It was because the early virtue of that excellent youth, whom I have now made fatherless, overshadowed my unworthiness, that my envious spirit rose against him; it was the praise, which he obtained and merited from all who spoke of him, that galled my pride, and fostered that malignity of mind, which hurried me along from step to step to the commission of the direst acts that ever weighed on a departing soul. To all my sins I now have added suicide, and defrauded public justice of its rightful punishment by being my own executioner. I have been long provided with a poisonous and tasteless mixture, which, (with horror I confess it) was destined to be made my instrument of vengeance upon the only woman, that ever touched my savage heart—the innocent and beautiful Maria Devereux; and what was it inspired me, monster as I am, with such a horrid purpose? it was because she honourably withstood my splendid offers, and candidly avowed that her affections were fixed upon an unknown gallant officer, who had saved her life, and by that action won her grateful heart.—Blessed be Heaven, that hath prevented this!—I had more to say, much more, but it is lost; my memory wanders, and I feel the deadly drug within me now in operation—I know, I know that there is joy reserved for that benevolent, that blessed youth, who even now with eyes, that beam divinity, looks on me whilst imploring pardon with my dying breath, and pities even the murderer of his father.

Here his voice failed; the deleterious dose rushed to the seat of life; another spasm seized him; his senses vanished; death was in his visage, horrible to behold; the medical assistants came about him, pronounced him gone; the poison had prevailed. The awful consummation was complete.

END OF BOOK THE SECOND.