CHAPTER VII.

Conversation in an Evening Walk.

The evening was delicious, there was a stillness in the air, that seemed like the repose of nature, when our hero and his Amelia walked forth to enjoy those happy moments, which rural scenes and rural solitude afford to Love. They were no sooner out of ear-shot from the castle walls, when John began—Now, my sweet girl, when no witness is about us, but the unseen Spirit, that protects and guards you, I can open all my heart to you without reserve, for it honours you, it loves you, it adores you. I have been absent from you; I have visited another country, I have seen other women, and contemplated their charms and their allurements without emotion or the diversion of a thought from you. I am entirely and unalterably yours. I think you love me; nay, I am sure you do; nothing therefore but the hand of death can separate us, and when I dissuaded Anderton from leaving you his fortune, it was because I regarded you already as my wife. But time, my lovely girl, must pass before I can have legal right to call you by that name. You see within how short a period I have been deprived of both my parents, and although my grandfather De Lancaster treats or feigns to treat the late melancholy event as a philosopher, I cannot help feeling it as a son; for I was present to behold my father die and witnessed his last words. If I could charge my conscience with having hesitated or delayed to obey his summons, and hasten to his relief, I should be wretched in the extreme: but, thank Heaven, I had fortitude to tear myself from your arms, and cannot reproach myself with any breach of duty. Nothing can exceed the kindness I received from Mr. Devereux and his family: but neither his hospitality, nor the approaching nuptials of his daughter with my friend Major Wilson, could prevail with me to prolong my stay a single hour beyond the very first pacquet, that afforded me an opportunity of returning to the place where I had left my heart. You will perceive I gave you credit for a mind superior to the vanity of show and ornament; for I have not brought a single gem to glitter on that lovely person, whose elegance and simplicity are its best adornments. My dear Amelia, we must seek for other honours, than decoration can give us; we must find out better uses for the affluence we are entrusted with, than gems and equipage and splendid galas: If you and I decide upon a country life, we will not let our tranquillity degenerate into indolence, nor ever suffer these superfluities, which we have no present call for, to accumulate for those, may chance to come after us to inherit, and perhaps to misapply, them: No, we will consider prosperity as a loan, and administer our abundance as the almoners of Providence, and stewards for the uses of our fellow-creatures, whose privations and distresses shall have claims upon that, which is not given as a monopoly to be devoured by one, but as a resource against the wants of many. By this conduct I may atone for not devoting my life, as well as my fortune, to the service of my country; and you may walk forth amongst your poor dependent pensioners, brighter and more splendid in the lustre of your charities than if I hung you round with all the jewels of the Lady of Loretto. Let us live hospitably, becomingly, liberally, after the example of my grandfather; but don’t let us make an undistinguishing waste either by our domestic style of living, or by wanton largesses to any, who may not deserve, as well as need, relief. We will support the industrious, who struggle against hard fortune, and the helpless, who would else sink under it; but we will not confound the lazy drone with the laborious bee. And now, beloved of my soul, as I have occupied you with a long homily, and wearied you with a long walk, here is a baiting place to repose in; sit down with me upon this shady bench, and let me read my answer in those heavenly eyes.

Oh, my dear sir, replied the fond and happy Amelia, your just and generous sentiments instruct and charm me. Convinced, that by the practice of these virtues you will ensure all that my heart can wish, all that my prayers can ask of Heaven, you give me that supreme delight, which only can be felt, but not described. What can I say to you? What other answer can you look for from your devoted, your betrothed Amelia, but that I am entirely yours? Is it enough to tell you, that I love you, that my whole happiness depends upon you? No; I am not quite convinced, but that the impression, which at our first interview you left so deeply fixed in this poor hopeless heart, would have compelled me to have loved you still, though you had treated me with marked neglect; nay, though you had neglected your own self, and fallen off from that high character in which I now behold you and admire. I felt as if I could have forgiven you every thing: and when you left me for so long a time without a word to soften my despair, I feared indeed that you was lost for ever, but I did not suspect you to be cruel. I knew you was offended with Mrs. Jennings, but I was sorry to find your resentment could be so lasting, and that you would take no pains to acquit me, who was innocent, and set my mind at rest. Morning and night I mused upon the words I heard you utter, when, looking on the portrait of my father, you pledged protection to the orphan who then lived, as she still does, upon the bounty of your family—Is this the man (I said within myself) who threw his arms about me, and pressed me with such rapture to his heart? Was there no meaning in that fond embrace? Did it sink only into my sad heart? Alas, I hoped that his had felt it too!—Thus I tormented my poor wretched self, till now, behold! I am sitting by your side—Nay; hear me out!—I have not told one half—

The expostulation was not out of place, for by some means or other, (what I know not) our heroine was defrauded of her right to tell the other half; and whether it was ever told, or not, I hope is no great object to the reader; for, upon the word and honour of a novelist, I have no authority, that can decide the question.

In due time the corpse of Philip De Lancaster arrived and was interred in the vault with his ancestors. Every member of that antient house attended the funeral, and several of the intimates and friends of the family shewed their respect by being present at the solemnity.

As the parishioners and labouring poor had no particular reason for tears and lamentations, they reasonably enough forbore to interrupt the ceremony, and only gratified their curiosity by gazing on the plumes and scutcheons and the costly pall and coffin: this did extremely well, and the cheering horn of fat Welch ale, that was dealt out to quench a thirst, that was natural to them at all times, and did not spring upon this occasion from sorrow, did still better. A great company were regaled in the state apartment’s of the castle, and a mighty mob in the lower regions.

Whilst these things were going on, Lawyer Davis, Doctor Llewellyn and the family-bard old Williams held a special consistory in a private cell, for the purpose of minuting down the memoranda, proper to be inserted in the family archives under the article of “Philip De Lancaster Esquire, lineally descended in the male line without a flaw from Japhet, son of Noah.”

The bard was to dictate; the Lawyer was to write, and the Doctor was to smoke his pipe, and make comments. As it was a business not to be dismissed in a slight perfunctory manner, there was a huge can of metheglin on the table to assist thought, for the data, that blind David had to go upon, were rather of the scantiest; and when a biographer has little or nothing before him, he must depend upon his wits for matter.

David opened the consultation by observing, that, before they sate down to their work, it was correctly in rule to make a libation to the immortal memory of the excellent person, whose virtues they were about to record; and he assured himself, that posterity would peruse the life and actions of Mr. Philip De Lancaster with peculiar interest and avidity.

After they had drank they began to deliberate, and the Doctor suggested, that the first thing needful was to prove the life, before they narrated the actions, of Mr. De Lancaster.

That is already settled, said the Lawyer, by entering, as I have done, the date of his birth.

Pardon me, replied the Doctor, that entry is not quite authority, unless you can show that he was born to die; for in many cases, which I have met, the death of the object in question has been known to forerun the birth.

Here is the date of his death, rejoined the Lawyer, copied from the plate on his coffin; and by this it appears, that he lived to complete a period of forty-three years, five months and three days.

Sufficit! said Llewellyn; the plate upon his coffin is evidence. Now let us understand what he employed himself upon during that period.

A silence ensued for a considerable time. David referred himself to the metheglin; the other two to meditation on the past events of Philip’s life, as materials for history.

He was very fond of angling, said the Lawyer.—He was so, replied the Doctor, and you may put that down in the archives, only you need not inform posterity, that he never got a bite.

Pooh! rejoined Davis, that naturally happened, because he was too indolent to bait his hook.—He had an acknowledged partiality for the game of chess.

Yes, and an acknowledged ignorance of it, said the Doctor. I am apt to think, that it will be perfectly safe to record, that he was six feet high—

Wanting half an inch, rejoined the Lawyer.

Pshaw! exclaimed the Doctor; if you begin to reckon up all that is wanting, there will be no end to the account.

David now unmuzzled his oracle, and began to utter—Gentlemen, give me leave to observe to you, that you wander from the points, that chiefly constituted the exemplary character of the deceased personage, whose incomparable qualities we are even now preparing to commemorate. He possessed, as I can witness, a most laudable respect for the almost miraculous powers of music: I do not say that Mr. Philip De Lancaster was skilled in the practice of that sublime art; but I do say, that he was at the pains of ascending the winding stair-case of my turret, and of entering my chamber on the top of it, for the benevolent purpose of employing me to expel the meagrims, or blue devils, as they are called, from the possession they had taken of his lady, and restoring her to health and spirits by the healing remedy of dulcet tones, elicited by me from my harp.

A fiddlestick for your harp! exclaimed the man of medicine. I tell you, that its dulcet tones were the very death of his wife. You may take that from me, friend David, in verbo medici.

I’ll not take that from you, or any one else, friend or foe, retorted the enraged musician; and now began an altercation between chemicals and galenicals versus chords and crotchets, which was maintained with such heat, (both gentlemen being of the principality,) that in the confusion of tongues all memory of poor Philip’s history was done away, and to this hour no record, anecdote or account of that unfortunate gentleman is any where to be found, save only what the historic tool of the engraver has briefly inscribed upon the lacquered plate, that ornaments his coffin.

CHAPTER VIII.

Our History verges to its Conclusion.—Cornet Roberts arrives at Penruth Abbey.

A very few days had elapsed since the event, recorded in our preceding chapter had taken place, when intelligence reached the castle, that the young heir of Penruth Abbey had arrived there from Lisbon. The servant, who brought this news, was the bearer also of a letter from Cornet Roberts to our hero, signifying that he was charged with a letter from Major Wilson to his father, which with permission, he would have the honour of delivering into his hands. The answer of our hero expressed every thing, that hospitality and politeness could convey; but certain reasons, still in force, prevailed with him to avoid, for the present at least, a visit to the abbey. A very short time however brought young Roberts to the castle, where he was received with all possible cordiality. He had left his friend the Major on the point of setting out for the review at Elvas, and as his marriage with Maria Devereux had taken place, the bride and her father had been invited, and were preparing to accompany him in the royal suite: in his letter to the Colonel he announces his intention of coming over to England upon the close of the campaign, and the family seat in Herefordshire was by order of Mr. Devereux furnishing and preparing for his reception. Prosperity had flowed in upon him; promotion awaited him, and every thing seemed conspiring for his happiness.

Roberts in the mean time ingratiated himself to every body, old or young, in the family of De Lancaster, by that modesty of mind and manners, in which his sudden turn of fortune made no change. He made frequent short excursions to the Abbey, where he had projected several considerable works for the occupation and employment of the labouring poor; but his delicacy never suffered him to ask John De Lancaster to accompany him. John attended upon him however to the house of old Ap Rees, when he went to invest him with the annuity settled upon him and his son. The business was so cautiously introduced, and so delicately conducted, that it created no very painful agitation on the part of the old man—I have so deep a sense, said Roberts, of the injuries you have received from the deceased person, whose property, but not whose principles, I inherit, that so long as life is granted to me, I will be the friend of you and all that may belong to you or yours; so be assured—The venerable minstrel bowed his head; but the sad recollection of his dear-loved daughter weighed upon his heart, and he was silent.

This and so many instances like this, occurred to strengthen and confirm our hero’s high opinion of young Roberts, that in hearts like theirs acquaintance soon was ripened into friendship; in proof of which it may not be entirely out of place to record a circumstance, that happened at the county races. Sir Arthur Floyd, the steward for the year preceding, had nominated John De Lancaster as his successor in that office, and when the time came round for his appearing in that character, his grandfather and friends were of opinion, that he could not handsomely absent himself. He proposed to Roberts to accompany him, and with some hesitation he accepted it. At the ordinary John in right of office took the chair; the cornet, as yet unknown to the gentlemen of the county, in his riding dress, and out of uniform, attracted very little notice, and declined all offers of introduction. It had been whispered however between some at table, that a near relation of Sir David Ap Owen was there, present and amongst them. When the glass had gone round briskly, and Welch blood began to stir, a sporting kind of half gentleman at the bottom of the table, who had been of the Ap Owen hunt, stood up and in a loud voice desired to ask a question of the president: leave was instantly given him from the chair to propose it.

He was ready enough with his words, and, addressing himself to De Lancaster, spoke as follows—Mr. President, it is not my good fortune to possess any great property in this county, but I hold it in as much honor and respect, as any gentleman here present, being perhaps of as antient standing, none excepted, not even yourself, Mr. De Lancaster, whom we are all proud to see at the head of this table as our steward, and shall be still prouder to see you there in good time as our representative.

A clapping of hands, and a vehement clatter of glasses, ensued—The speaker as soon as silence was restored, proceeded—Mr. President, I am sorry to say that a great and grievous disgrace has been cast upon this country by the infamous conduct of as dire a wretch, as ever went into his grave unhanged. I mean the late Sir David Ap Owen; I speak out; I am no slanderer. And now, Mr. President, I am informed, (whether truly or not you perhaps can tell) that there is a near relation of that wretch, who has so disgraced us, actually present in this company.

I am that person, said young Roberts, instantly starting up, and cutting him short in his oration. I am nephew to the late worthy Sir Owen Ap Owen, and of course first cousin to the late unworthy heir of his title and estate. Now, sir, if my presence, gives you on that account any umbrage, I am ready to leave the company, provided you go with me; for having the honour to wear the King’s commission, I am not willing to disgrace it by putting up with an affront from you, or any man alive, who can prove himself a gentleman.

Several persons now rose at the same time, and called upon the orator for an apology, when upon John De Lancaster’s appealing to be heard in right of office, all were silent and sate down—Gentlemen, he said, I am persuaded, that a very few words in the way of explanation will set this matter right, without disturbing the peace of the company, or wounding the feelings of any person present. It would be hard indeed upon my friend Mr. Roberts, it would be hard upon me, who am proud to call him by that name, if, because he inherits the estate of an antient and respectable family in this county, the guilt of that man, through whose hands it passed in its descent to him, could be supposed to cast the slightest stain upon his character: that I am sure was not the purpose of the gentleman, who was pleased to address himself to me. He spoke upon the impulse of an honest indignation against one, who is far enough removed from this assembly, not from the premeditated motive of putting an affront upon a gentleman, whose company confers an honour, wheresoever he bestows it. If therefore I conjecture rightly of my worthy countryman at the other end of the table, I will put it to the proof by calling upon him to pledge me in a toast, which I will give to the health and prosperity of our new neighbour, Charles Roberts esquire, the present heir and owner of Penruth Abbey.

Instantly, without a moment’s loss, the orator started on his legs, and having filled his glass to the brim, with a loud voice, directed to Mr. Roberts, cried amain, that he hoped he would accept of his apology, and that he drank his health with all his heart. When the toast had gone round, the young heir of the Ap Owens rose, and having made his acknowledgments to the company, professed himself perfectly satisfied with the testimony, which the gentleman, who addressed the president, had been pleased to give of his good opinion of him. Thus by the temperate and manly interference of our hero, the spirit of discord, which for a time had worn so menacing an aspect, was expelled, and harmony and goodfellowship reinstated in its stead.

CHAPTER IX.

The History is concluded.

“Having at length settled all my temporal affairs, nothing remains for me in this world but to prepare my mind to meet that awful moment, which must soon dismiss me from it. I rather think my complaint has gained upon me, since my residence in London, and the physician, whom I have consulted, tells me that I must positively lose no time in seeking out some country-house in a better climate and a purer air. From what passed between us on our passage, (which, though you may have forgotten, I never can) I have cherished hopes, that perhaps your benevolence may induce you to procure for me a situation in your neighbourhood, where I may enjoy the comfort of your edifying and instructive conversation. Could I obtain this blessing, it would be all I wish for; I should die content. If you return a favourable answer, I shall instantly set out, and I flatter myself that by easy stages I may accomplish the journey: if on the contrary you reject my suit, I have only to thank you for your favours past, resign myself to despair, and bid you everlastingly farewel.”

When John De Lancaster had read thus far, he eagerly enquired of Wilson what answer he had returned to this pitiable appeal. I have told him, replied Wilson, that I am about to fix my residence in the parish, of which I am the minister, and as my parsonage house is by the bounty of your grandfather rendered perfectly commodious, and has the further recommendation of being situated in a fine air and very beautiful spot, I shall very gladly receive him in it, and shew him all the attentions in my power for such time as it may suit him to make use of it.

The return of the post brought a letter from poor Anderton full of acknowledgments for the generous offer, which he most gladly embraced, and was eagerly employed in preparing for his journey.

Nothing now remained but to wait the expiration of the time allotted to the forms of mourning. That interval was not chequered by a single incident, that could disturb the happiness of our hero, or of any of those worthy characters, whose story may have gained an interest in the reader’s wishes.

Anderton, having slowly crawled through his long length of journey, arrived at Kray Castle, where Edward Wilson waited for him; and having lived to see the lovely daughter of his friend in perfect happiness and high prosperity, retired with Wilson to his calm asylum, where after a short period profitably employed he closed his days in peace.

Mr. Devereux, having delivered over to his son the management of his concerns in Portugal, came with the Major and Maria to England, and having paid a visit to the family at Kray Castle, established himself in his fine old mansion in Herefordshire, in the centre of a noble property, augmented by purchases and embellished by improvements.

Colonel Wilson lived to see his beloved Edward, after the decease of Anderton, married to the amiable and accomplished daughter of Sir Arthur Floyd. His frequent visits at Sir Arthur’s house, which was within a very short distance of his own, had naturally given rise to an attachment, which, when Anderton’s bequest had established him in affluence, and not till then, he made known, and found his well-placed passion was returned.

The good old Morgan kept a gay heart, and the gout at a distance. Whilst he was for ever laying out a character for himself, which every action of his life contradicted, no persuasion could divert him from ordering new carriages to be built and fine horses to be bought in town for the purpose of setting out his grandson with a splendid equipage, that he had no wish for. He bustled over in prodigious haste to Glen Morgan, as soon as ever the day was named for the wedding, and gave directions that open house should be kept for three days after that event took place, and free allowance without stint to all drunken idlers, that chose to lend a hand to the draining of his cellars.

When his brother-in-law gravely took him to task, and remonstrated against these lawless proceedings, as tending to produce nothing but riot and disorder, he stuck boldly to his text, and would not waver; contending that it was fit and right the tillers of the soil should enjoy the produce of the soil, and, if they quarrelled over their cups, they might fight it out over their cups for what he cared; a few broken heads would set all to rights; and as for riots and disturbances, if the county could not keep its own peace, he hoped he was not bound to keep it for them.

In the mean time he was not wholly inattentive to his own person, but found a half-crazed chattering Denbigh tailor to fit him out with a flaming suit, laced down the seams, like the jacket of a drum-major; and at the same time provided himself with a most tremendous perriwig, and long cravat of Brussels lace. He was with difficulty prevented from heaping tawdry ornaments and trinkets upon Amelia, that would totally have destroyed all those charms, which the elegant simplicity of her own taste knew so much better how to set off and recommend. But the Jew Lyons exhibited a glittering show-box, and having trapped him into the purchase of the French watch, that he bestowed upon Amelia, knew the value of so good a customer.

Cecilia De Lancaster was the presiding spirit, that kept all things straight and steady in their course: at her command they moved, by her discretion they were governed and directed. Under her control joy was not suffered to run riot, and the vagaries of old Morgan were kept within bounds: to any other authority but her’s he paid no regard, and had a way of parrying the railleries of Wilson, and the remonstrances of De Lancaster.

That venerable and worthy personage preserved a dignified tranquillity. A smile sate upon his countenance, and his eyes brightened when he turned them on Amelia and his grandson. He caused a considerable length of parchment to be added to his roll of pedigree, for the purpose of leaving space for the future descendants from John De Lancaster and Amelia Jones. He put old David upon composing an epithalamium, which when written down as he dictated it, turned out to be very little shorter than the Last Lay of the Minstrel. Neither was his own genius unemployed, for he composed, and was at the pains of writing with his own hand a set of maxims, which he intitled rules for domestic happiness in the married state. They consisted chiefly of truisms, which he was at the pains of proving; and of errors so obvious, that examination could not make them clearer. He pointed out so many ways, by which man and wife must render each other miserable, that he seemed to have forgot, that the purport of his rules was to make them happy. So little was this learned work adapted to the object held out in the title, that, if it had been pasted up for general use on the door of a church, it may be doubted if any, who had read it, would have entered there to be married.

He delivered it however with much solemnity to his grandson—saying to him—Here is a proof, my dear John, how seriously my thoughts have been employed for your instruction: govern yourself by these rules, and you will be happy.

If I govern myself by your example, John made answer, I shall have no need of rules.

On the evening preceding the wedding-day, John drew Amelia aside, and conducting her to the private chamber, which he made his study, produced a case, which he said contained the family jewels of the De Lancasters and Morgans, newly set—I have added nothing to them, he said, for I am fully conscious they can add nothing to you: It is fit however that you should have them, and wear them, when you see occasion: our friends seem to wish it, and our fortune fully warrants it. When I shall put this plain good ring upon your finger to-morrow, and confirm it as the symbol of our union with an oath before the altar, trifles like these jewels will have no further value, as the test of my affection: that is made secure to you, not only by the graces of your person, which ornaments cannot improve, but also by the virtues of your mind, which time cannot impair.

FINIS.


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